The Captain of All Pleasures (19 page)

She had violated all his possessions—why wasn't he feeling the familiar ire? He should be. But a part of him believed he'd gotten exactly what he deserved.

As if reading his mind, she spoke. “You told me you ‘didn't bloody well care' what I did.” His gaze flew from the wall to her face. Her eyes were open, watching him without interest.

“So I did,” he admitted. Light purple smudges just under her eyes showed him that she'd worn herself down. What if she relapsed? Guilt twisted in his chest, surprising him with its strength, and he was about to apologize to lessen it. Instead, stupidly, he said, “You know, I should feel angry.”

A moment passed. “I don't bloody well care how you feel,” she said in a deadened voice, and closed her eyes.

As sleep claimed her, Derek was left to his own heavy thoughts as he lost himself in the scene surrounding him.

N
icole was sitting by the window working on her knots when a loud rap on the door surprised her. Knocking? Well, this was unprecedented with this philistine crew. She took a cursory glance down to make sure everything was covered.

Since Bigsby had been barred from her company, the door opened and closed freely without any concession to her. Luckily, growing up at sea had drilled out any hint of modesty that might once have been present in her.

Sutherland strolled in smelling of sea, salt, and freezing, crisp air. God, how badly she longed to be free of this cabin! It was so painful to her that he might as well be teasing a beggar at the kitchen window.

She'd struggled with the temptation to make up a story about the poisoning just so she could get out. But she knew next to nothing about poison and couldn't even begin to fabricate a convincing tale.

The thought of having to lie to gain her freedom galled her. If Sutherland stood there waiting for her to talk, he'd be disappointed. All she felt capable of doing was glaring hatefully at him. He in turn looked as if he wanted to shuffle his feet.

“I thought that since you've run out of canvas,” he said with a pointed look around his cabin, “you might be in need of some.” He laid a pile of large canvas squares on his desk as if he were placating some wild animal. Which she supposed she was fast becoming.

Then, from a small crate, he pulled out three tins. “Thought you might need some paint, also.” He looked eminently pleased with himself when he presented her with the paint, as if this burst of generosity was somehow noteworthy.

Instead of responding with kind words or even a little fawning, which he seemed to expect, she simply stared at him and fingered the squares with precise, edgy movements. She stopped when her cheek twitched.

“I thought this would please you and possibly make up for yesterday…” His words died as she rose and marched up to him. Before he even had a clue what she intended, she'd drawn back her arm.

And punched his face.

“What the bloody hell! Why'd you do that?” Sutherland's bellow was skewed as he grasped his jaw to work it back and forth.

Her fury was so strong she shook from it. “If you think that some cut-up sail and some old paint will make me forget that you have me confined to this damned cabin”—she paused to take a deep breath—“then you are sadly mistaken. I am not some little nitwit who'll be happy with whatever diversion you throw at me! When I paint, I usually do it
after
a hard day's work!”

She'd punched Sutherland! She couldn't quite believe it, but her hand throbbed from the impact with his rock-solid face. There was a flutter of movement outside; Jimmy had been standing outside the door. For how long, she didn't know, but she did know that the boy had seen Sutherland holding his jaw, muttering a blistering curse.

She couldn't seem to dim the lazy grin that surfaced once she'd unleashed the worst of her pique. It wouldn't fade even when Sutherland made a menacing sound toward her before stalking out the door.

In fact, she grew even more pleased—the news would be all over the ship in minutes.

 

The next morning she received her second knock and even enjoyed a polite hesitation before the door opened. Jimmy, the little brat, padded in as if he didn't want to wake her. Each day his eyes brightened and his skin grew pinker, while she weakened. She thought she really might hate him.

As he had the day before, he examined the walls she'd painted with a marveling look on his face, then left the tray. Today, however, he placed it on the table, forgoing the floor. Instead of dispensing the obligatory scowl before his departure, he hesitated at the open door before turning back to her.

“What do you want?” she snapped. With his wind-flushed cheeks, he looked completely recovered from his sickness, and he, like Sutherland, smelled as if he'd been bathing in sunshine. The thought of Jimmy outside when she couldn't be was just too much.

This crew's treatment of her was about to change—beginning with him. She started toward the little whelp.

He backed away from her. “D-did you really give the cap'n your fives?”

She raised her eyebrows at him but didn't stop.

“Um, well, I thought you decked the cap'n.”

She glowered even more menacingly. Fine. If Jimmy meant to take her to task for that one beautiful facer she'd planted, she was spoiling for a fight.

“Yes, I popped the captain. What are you going to do about it?” Tilting her head, she looked the boy over, sizing him up. He wasn't much bigger than she was. One more once-over, and she decided. She could take him.

“Wait!” He held a hand in front of him to ward off her advance, backing up to the door. Clumsily he maneuvered himself behind it, only allowing his head to peek out. “'Ow come…'ow come you ain't ashamed of what you done?” he cried.

She knew he asked her not about hitting the captain but about poisoning their water. Although she didn't feel the question even deserved an answer, she was past furious now.

“Ashamed? I've done nothing to be ashamed of!” she screeched. “If you weren't as insanely obtuse as your captain, you'd have comprehended by now that I couldn't
poison
anyone. I'm not perfect by any means, but I'm not malicious enough to poison you, even though
I'm beginning to wish I had!”

Jimmy sucked in a breath, and his eyes widened wildly before he spun around. He had to fight past the handful of crewmen who by this time had gathered by the door, most likely drawn by her screaming. Some of them nodded toward her and mumbled back and forth, but she ignored them. She supposed this was as good a time as any to bring this to a head. Because there was no way she'd spend the next month inside, and they needed to know that.

She opened the door wide and turned to the closest sailor. “So you think I poisoned your water?” she shouted. “You're so convinced I did that your captain won't let me on deck for fear you'll do me harm.” She leveled her glare at every seaman crowded about the door.

“Well, damn you all! I've done nothing but have the misfortune to be aboard with a no-good bunch of cowardly bastards!” Her fists clenched as she reached the point of no return.

“If you mean to do me harm, you better bloody well do it now, because I'm walking out that door, and I'll feel the sun on my face…or I'll die trying.
Do you understand me?”

In her fury, all she could hear was the blood pounding in her head. She was barely conscious of the exhaled whistles or gruff grunts. She lunged at the door, shoving at those who were too slow to get out of her way.

Including Sutherland.

With a grim expression of realization on his face, he stood motionless. Too bad.

With all her might, she stiff-armed him to the side before she marched to the railing and looked out over the sea.

 

Derek didn't think he'd ever felt like such a bloody bastard. As he watched her at the rail, watched her small shoulders rise with each shuddering breath of fresh air, he knew.

She didn't do it.

He couldn't believe that she'd screamed at his crew or that she'd shoved him. But her indignant behavior was like a wedge opening up a stronghold of gut feeling. His instincts kicked in, and he simply understood. She must have been telling him the truth about what she was doing on his ship that night.

He turned from her and sought out Jeb. “Tell the rest of the crew that they are to treat Miss Lassiter as an honored guest aboard this ship.”

“Aye, Cap'n. We kinda figgered things out when we 'eard she clocked you in the face.”

He scowled at the sailor. “Your age doesn't give you liberty to disrespect your captain.”

“No, but I can when my captain's made an ass of 'imself.”

With a last menacing look, Derek turned from him and found a good place to watch her. For the next two hours, she stood at the rail. It was late afternoon when she finally laid her head on the wood. She was afraid someone would drag her back inside.

He didn't think it was wise to approach her this soon, but he couldn't let her fear him or his crew's treatment of her any longer.

“Nicole,” he began when he stood behind her. She didn't acknowledge him at all. “Look at me, please,” he said. He gently turned her to him, and noticed with a sharp pain in his chest that she furtively clutched the rail. “I don't believe you tainted the water.”

She didn't respond.

“Did someone…so someone hurt your ship as well.”

“Just as I've said all along.”

He exhaled a deep breath. “I want to apologize to you—”

“Very well,” she said tightly.

He'd apologized, and she didn't seem to care. “I am saying I'm sorry,” he grated.

“And I am saying, ‘Very well.'”

“What do you want from me? What do you want to set us straight?”

She looked right past him. “I want a ride to Sydney.” She walked away from him, following the rail.

As seemed always the case, he was at a loss where she was concerned. Every time he believed he had her figured out, what kind of person she really was, his whole idea of her became fragmented.

He'd thought she was a prostitute and a dangerous deceiver. Now he was no closer than he'd been before. Was she a woman who wanted to sail with her father and help him build a shipping line? Or was she serious about her incredible artistic talent? Was she only sailing while waiting to find the right man to settle down with and start a family?

The thought of her marrying another man brought on a raw surge of jealousy. And it was jealousy. He wouldn't pretend any longer that she was merely someone he lusted after. He wanted to understand her; he wanted to know her.

Not that that would happen anytime soon. In the days that followed, she didn't speak to him, and he wisely didn't push the issue.

“You might as well be a gnat for 'ow easy she ignores you,” Jeb told him one morning when he came upon Derek staring at her.

He scowled at Jeb, uncomfortable with being caught. He hadn't missed the fact that the crew felt sorry for him. If they spotted him looking at her, which he did for most of every day, they lowered their eyes. But not before he could see their sympathy.

“Thank you, Jeb, for your sage and unasked-for observation.”

“You wish she'd scream at you right about now, eh?” Jeb observed.

He gritted his teeth.

“But, no, that one won't pour on the blame and cry.”

Strangely, she hadn't done any of that to make him feel guilty. He would have, especially when he thought of all she'd lost and what she'd been through with no one to turn to. Then to be brought onto his ship, jailed, and starved, even if that last had been unintentional.

“She simply doesn't want to have anything to do with me,” Derek said absently.

“I bet that bothers you like salt on an open wound,” the old man said in a kinder tone.

He found himself nodding. It did, as did the fact that the only person she'd speak to out of the whole crew was Bigsby.

Like Derek, the crew had changed their minds about her, but they hadn't yet accepted her as one of their own. It didn't appear that she wanted to have anything to do with them, either. With her full run of the ship, she used the space to avoid everyone.

Especially him.

She picked up chores, not asking anyone, but simply mending or cleaning anything she thought needed it. He had no illusions that her efforts were meant to help him or his crew in any way. She worked to alleviate her otherwise obvious boredom.

The distance Nicole put between herself and everyone else was loud and jarring, and no matter what anyone did—

“Good morning, Miss Lassiter.”

“Uh-huh.”

—it wouldn't be breached.

Except in bed with him.

From the first night they'd slept together back in London, he'd found it…nice with her, and he'd continued to each night, even after her outburst. Every morning, it became harder to leave her and their unspoken—and, on her side, unconscious—truce. When he folded her to his chest, she welcomed him, even unwittingly moving closer to him.

That night, when he returned to the cabin, he looked her over. Her small hands nestled the blanket under her chin, and her thick braid wound over her shoulder.
Beautiful.
She was beautiful to him. He wanted to make love to her for more than the pleasure he knew he'd find with her. He wanted to take her, to make this clever, brave woman his.

For some reason, the want of her that never left him was more powerful tonight. He was sick with it, sick with wanting her. Tonight he wouldn't—couldn't—sleep with her. He stayed in his chair, thinking about the girl in his bed, hard drinking in hope of oblivion. When he rose to get another bottle, she awakened and rubbed her eyes.