The Captain of All Pleasures (18 page)

Derek would be forced to escort her everywhere she went, and he didn't relish spending that much time with the taciturn girl. When she did speak, she was belligerent and insulting.

As he'd expected, she started demanding to go out shortly after they'd sailed from Cape Town.

He thought he could easily deflect her by saying, “I'll escort you topside as soon as you tell me why you poisoned my crew.”

“One more time—I did not poison your blasted crew.”

“So be it. When you're ready to tell me, I'll take you out.”

“You don't have to take me. Just let me out! Are you afraid I'll get away? I haven't been able to take any sightings of my whereabouts, but I know we're close to the Antarctic. Do you think I'll attempt a swimming escape? Perhaps I could paddle a little chunk of ice back to the Cape,” she said with a nasty smile.

He answered her smile with a patronizing one of his own. “The crew…dislikes you. I'm not certain you'd want to be out there without me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and looked to be gulping back whatever vicious retort she'd been thinking of. The girl had a stubborn streak a mile wide. But then, so did he. He meant it when he said she'd have to confess before he let her out. He would break her down.

Turning to walk to the window, she took a deep breath. “You must understand I can't tell you about your poisoning because I know nothing about it. You are only butting your head against an unbreachable wall.”

“I think it's you who are mistaken. You'll tell me, or you'll spend the next two months in this cabin.”

She shook her head and faced him with a proud look. “That statement just shows that you don't know me at all. If you think you can keep me when I want to go, then you have truly lost your senses.”

She tilted her head and tapped her finger on one cheek. “Hmmm, I've heard that can happen to one if one were, say…a
drunk
. But I suppose that in your case”—she paused, looking him over—“it could be
age
related.”

 

For the rest of the morning, Nicole replayed her exchange with Sutherland. She'd boldly told him there could be no doubt that it was he who'd sunk her ship. Now, uncertainty was all she felt. He wouldn't maintain his innocence for this long if he was guilty. A man with his disregard for…well, everything, would simply own up to it. Plus, he'd wanted to believe that Tallywood had been a main suspect. It was as if Sutherland wanted to know he wouldn't immediately be connected to any treachery in their sailing community. If he'd done it, he wouldn't be tempted to believe her.

If his sad determination that he'd be accused first swayed her, then his undiminished animosity toward her convinced her. He really thought she'd poisoned his crew. She'd been certain he'd sunk her ship. Now she concluded someone else had hurt them both. She felt a twinge of guilt over her insults that morning, but pushed it away.

So he hadn't sunk her ship—one less thing she could hate him for. And it was hard to hold his treatment of her against him when he believed she'd poisoned his men. But she could still despise him for jailing her crew at the Cape.

There was nothing for her to do but bide her time. Her injuries had healed, and he knew it. So far she hadn't pressed about wanting to go topside, but after the storm they'd just sailed through, she really would get sick if she couldn't go out soon.

When he came to the cabin at noontime, she was dressed in her own clothes and pacing.

“Captain Sutherland? May I speak with you?” She could be polite when it suited her.

He sank down on the edge of the bunk and pulled off his boots. He was soaked through and looked done in. “What do you want?” His tone was short of civil.

Lord, he was burned by her comments that morning. Captain Sutherland had some chinks in his armor. She tucked that information away for later use.

“I was hoping that you would be gracious enough to escort me to the deck today, since the storm has finally broken.”

“No,” he said without even pausing to consider it.

“No? Just like that?” she cried.

“Yes.”

Her face burned from holding in the bitter words she was dying to say. She couldn't do it. Not another day down here. “Sutherland…
please.”

Ignoring her, he walked to his chest and pulled out dry clothes. He threw them on the bed and began drawing his wet shirt over his head. She dragged her gaze from that wide expanse of damp chest. Sutherland was a cruel, arrogant boor; so why did the sight of his body still affect her?

She averted her face so she could speak steadily. “I would ask you to reconsider. It's bordering on inhumane to keep me down here.”

When he continued dressing and said nothing, she turned to him again, and couldn't say if she was disappointed or relieved to see he'd already changed his pants.

As per her plan, if he was unresponsive, she'd just have to lie. Collapsing into a chair, she raised a hand to her head. “I think that the lack of fresh air and sunlight is making the headaches come back.”

For a second, she thought he looked concerned.

“Is that so?”

Damn, why did he sound like he didn't believe her? “Yes, I'm afraid it is. Please, just an hour a day. I can work. I can pull my own load.”

“We don't need anyone to cook or sew for us. And we have someone who launders. You are useless to me.”

“Useless?
Useless?
You only named the chores that women usually do on shore. Is that all you think I'm capable of?”

“I know lots of things you're capable of,” he sneered.

That bastard!

When he stood up to leave, having obviously finished this conversation, her anger deflated. The thought of another day cooped up in his cabin made her want to cry.

She finally found her tongue when he was halfway out the door.

“But what am I to do all day?” she asked in a small, lame voice.

“I don't bloody well care what you do.”

When she heard the click of the door lock, her misery once again yielded to fury. Every chantey the crew sang and every tack the ship made only provoked her more. It wasn't natural to be locked down here, especially for something she didn't do. By God, now she
wanted
to poison him!

She searched the cabin but couldn't find anything that she'd be willing to break or disfigure. Truthfully, it went against her nature to be destructive. She preferred to create….

An idea surfaced. Her eyes flitted toward her sea chest, the same chest Sutherland had avoided as though it had teeth. Here, right within her grasp, was her revenge. He would regret his treatment of her. And after she'd finished, he'd never be able to forget her.

 

“Captain Sutherland?” Bigsby inquired with a frown when he stalked to the deck.

“What do you want?”

The man looked pointedly behind Derek. “I had hoped Miss Lassiter would be with you, since the weather's turned so fair.”

“She's not.” Derek made his way in the opposite direction.

Bigsby followed. “Oh. How has she been feeling? Any headaches?”

Derek's brows drew together. She had obviously been lying about the headaches. Hadn't she? Of course. She was a pitiful actress. Still…“Why do you ask about headaches?”

“I have always expressed worry about the blow to the head she sustained.”

“No headaches.”

“Oh, very well. Would you tell her I'm very pleased she's feeling better?”

Bigsby's overweening kindness almost made Derek regret his harsh manner with her. At the time, he'd thought her underhanded lying should be expected from a woman devious by nature. Yet after considering her situation, he admitted that he probably would've been driven to do the same thing.

Contrary to what most people thought, he wasn't a cruel man by nature. He turned to go to his cabin to check on her.

“Cap'n! Ship ahoy. Looks to be a homeward-bound English ship. Mail packet. They're signaling to ‘speak us.' ”

Derek hesitated. He was anxious to get information about the race and barter for supplies, and reasoned Nicole would be fine in the cabin for a few hours more. When they sailed in closer, he accepted the captain's invitation to row over and visit with him and his wife.

Once he was on board, the jovial, loquacious couple broke out a bottle of fine French claret and insisted repeatedly that he join them for dinner. He agreed, because the breeze that evening was light, and they wouldn't lose any time. More important, he would grasp at anything to get his mind off the woman he had locked up in his cabin.

Even so, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. After several hours, he'd finally managed politely to leave the neighboring ship. The claret he'd hoped would numb some of his guilt and anger toward her had only served to get him semidrunk.

He stood at the rail hoping the chill winds would clear his mind. He wanted to be in control when he faced her. Surely Nicole would be scratching at the walls by this time.

Nicole.
As he gazed up at the inky sky, he thought he'd finally found the color of her eyes: the blue of a night sky at the bottom of the world. He quickly flushed at how sentimental his thoughts were. Christ, he needed to quit drinking. He was glad when Jimmy interrupted his driveling musings.

“Cap'n, you told me to tell you if anything was wrong with the girl. I'm 'ere to tell you that she ain't eaten nothin' all day.”

If this was her plan to make him feel guilty, she was doing a splendid job. “Did she appear ill to you?” he said, trying to sound steady.

Jimmy shuffled his feet nervously at that question, then muttered, “I ain't seen 'er, Cap'n.”

“What's that, boy?”

“She sent me away at midday and dinner saying that she wasn't dressed and couldn't let me in. So I just left the trays outside the door.”

Derek guessed that Jimmy didn't give a damn about her any more than the rest of the crew and wouldn't have cared if she ate or not.

“She didn't take any of the food, but she did take the pitchers of water,” the boy added, probably hoping that information would erase the hard look on his captain's face.

Although Nicole had eaten like a bird, she'd at least eaten steadily since he'd assured her of the food. Something really had to be wrong.

He stalked to his cabin, sweat lightly beading his forehead even with the freezing winds blowing. He didn't understand why he cared at all. But his crew had recovered from the poisoning now, and he found it difficult to continue wanting to hurt her.

He tamped down his visible concern as he opened the door.

She was on his bunk, bundled in his warm blankets, which was wise because his port window was open to the night air. Still, an odor like mineral spirits assailed him. He could only just make her out in the bed since her own lamp was down low, but something dark dotted her face and hair. He turned up the lantern near the door, and inhaled a whistle as he surveyed his cabin.

Which was newly decorated.

Nicole—the little witch—had painted his walls. She'd produced a pastoral scene, a landscape that was…remarkable.

Unfortunately, her canvas encompassed his
whole
cabin. If his shirt hung on the wall in an integral spot, she'd simply painted over it. The spines of his books, so neatly lined up, were now green and grassy. His mirror had been turned into a glassy pond surrounded by reeds. She had somehow integrated every inch of every wall panel into the scene.

He moved closer to look at the water pitchers she'd taken from her tray. Paintbrushes filled them. The gilded silver handles were engraved with the words “To Nicole, Happy Birthday, E. B.” Who the devil was E. B.? More luxuries—and not from her father.

Someone, probably another man, had thought highly enough of her to give her these expensive gifts. Purposely ignoring the thought of her responding gratitude, he continued to scan the room. She'd used every drop of ink out of his wells and every ounce of bootblack. Still, she would have had to have a good supply of her own paint.

The chests.
Derek inwardly berated himself for not investigating her sea chests, which were evidently filled with paint supplies.

The landscapes on her own cabin wall…they were hers. She was the artist he'd thought so talented. His breath whistled out as he surveyed her work. She'd done an exceptional job, but how could she have accomplished this so swiftly?

Again he felt a flush of guilt. She'd been alone in the cabin for eight or maybe nine hours. Even so, as he peered closer at the intricate details in every image, he thought she must have worked in a frenzy to get it all done in one day. Because she had painted
everything
.