He cradled her head against his shoulder, listening to her unsteady breathing, although it was almost drowned out by the roar of the waves through which the Rebecca was plowing. Beneath him, he could hear the creak of the ill-made ship as the wood protested against the strain the captain was putting it under, forcing it to travel at such excessive speeds. Above him, he heard the cry of the midwatchman, and the violent flap of a torn seam in a topsail. And against him, he felt her heartbeat go from racing to a slow, even rhythm against his chest.
She was so small that even with her full body weight resting on him, she seemed light as a child. He had to remind himself that she was a fully mature woman—probably nineteen years old by now, if they’d truly been aboard this wretched vessel as many days as his hatch marks on the wall indicated. Nineteen was certainly not ancient, but it wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either.
Of course, Payton Dixon might have been nineteen, but she was also a virgin. That made her seem younger than any other woman he’d ever been with … in spite of the fact that she’d assaulted him in a manner that hardly suggested any sort of virginal modesty. What kind of virgin was she, he couldn’t
help asking himself, that she was capable of an assault like that?
Which was exactly how he felt. Like he’d been the victim of an assault. Oh, he’d started it. He was more than aware that he was the one who’d started it, with that first burning kiss. And it wasn’t as if he minded what that kiss had brought about. At least, not very much. No man would mind being assaulted in that way, not by a young and pretty girl. He certainly wasn’t complaining …
Though it might have been nice if he, like Payton, had found some relief. He was still rock-hard, and starting to ache a little. Even through the double layer of their clothing, he could feel the moist heat emanating from between her legs. The temptation to loosen her trousers, tuck her beneath him, and rut upon her with wild abandon was a strong one.
Fortunately, despite the weeks he’d spent chained to this damned wall—and despite his earlier behavior, which he already regretted, and deeply—he was still aware that he was a gentleman. Dimly aware of it, but aware, all the same. And so he shifted her limp body a little—to relieve some of the pressure on his erection—and simply held her, trying hard to think of things other than what it would be like to make love to Payton Dixon.
Which was easier said than done. It had been an entirely new experience to him, being with a woman whose sole motivation was pleasuring herself; every other woman he’d ever been with had had his pleasure foremost in mind, not her own. Well, he’d generally paid them, and very well, for the courtesy.
But even the women he had not hired—the native girls, curious about the white men who’d arrived on the tall ships—had never straddled him and rode him as if he were a stallion.
And she was a virgin. That was the worst part. She was a virgin. He ought to have been the one showing her how love between two people was properly made. But she hadn’t given him the chance. After he’d started kissing her, she’d attacked him with so much ingenuous sensuality that he’d hardly had
a chance to catch his breath, let alone gain the upper hand. Who would have thought that there was that much sensuality packed into the compact little body resting so comfortably against him?
He ought to have known. It had been there all along, after all, in the way he’d occasionally caught her looking at him, her eyes disappearing behind a veil of thick brown lashes as soon as he glanced in her direction. In the way she’d made it her habit to sit near him at mealtimes——never directly beside him, but close enough to overhear his conversations, and put in a saucy remark of her own. In the way she always chose to stand by him … not too close. Never too close, lest one of her brothers should, be watching … but close enough so that occasionally, when he’d turn around, he’d nearly step on her.
How long had Payton Dixon been watching him, measuring him, sizing him up for her own? And how long had he stumbled around in complete ignorance of it, of her, never having the slightest clue that everything he’d ever been looking for in a woman was standing right there beside him? It wasn’t until that kiss in the garden the night before his wedding that he’d realized its existence, this incredible sensuality with which the Honorable Miss Payton Dixon was fairly brimming over. Discovering it the night before he was to marry someone else had very nearly driven him mad. How could he, even for the best of all reasons, have married a Becky Whitby, knowing there was a Payton Dixon in the world?
Still, in the moments when he dared to envision a future that included Payton—and those moments were rare and far between, since, locked as he was in the hold of an enemy ship, he did not suppose he had much of future, with or without Payton, or any other woman, for that matter—he had never imagined their first time together quite this way. When he let himself picture making love to her at all, the deed was always conducted in the large, satin-sheeted bed in the captain’s cabin on the Constant, with moonlight spilling in through the casement windows, and the gentle lap of ocean waves the only accompaniment. He had certainly never imagined making love
to her in the stinking hold of this pirate ship, to the sound of clanking metal links; nor that when the moment finally came, either of them would remain fully clothed for very long …
As if she’d read his thoughts, Payton raised her head just then, and said, “I don’t think I did that right.”
He tried not to smile, since she seemed quite serious. His attempt was not quite successful.
“Well,” he replied. His voice was a little wobbly, thanks to the discomfort in his breeches. He cleared his throat. “That would be a matter of opinion, I suppose.”
“My guess is that I should have waited until we’d taken our pants off:”
“That’s generally how the thing is done.”
“I couldn’t wait, though,” she informed him. And then, with a slight movement of her hips, and a quick downward glance at the place where the front of his trousers bulged with the evidence of his arousal, she said brightly, “But it’s not too late, is it? I mean, you had the self-control to wait. Why don’t we—”
Well, what had he expected? There was very little the Honorable Miss Dixon did not take in stride. It could be assumed that sexual transgressions like the one they’d just shared shocked her no more than anything else. Her fingers were actually on his belt when he reached out and took hold of her wrist. “Payton,” he said.
The stricken expression that came over her face when she looked up to meet his gaze was heartbreaking to see. “Oh,” she said, drawing her hand away as if his belt buckle had grown very hot of a sudden. “I’m sorry. Only I thought—you see, I thought maybe you wanted to.” Again the quick glance at the front of his trousers. Then, she said, very quickly, “But that’s all right, really.”
“Payton.” He didn’t release her wrist, although she was pulling on it, and trying to roll off him, at the same time. He wouldn’t let her. “Listen to me.”
“No, it’s all right, really. I know I get carried away sometimes. Don’t pay any mind to me. I’ll just be going now—”
Only a quick flexing of his muscles kept her from escaping. Her catlike agility was startling, but he possessed the superior strength, despite the cumbersome chains round his wrists. In a moment, he had her pinned beneath him, exactly where he’d fantasized about having her. Only now it was to keep her from leaving, not to deflower her.
“No,” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve listened to me.”
She seemed too astonished to reply. Encouraged by this rare silence on her part, he went on.
“Listen, Payton,” he said. “That wasn’t how it ought to have been—”
“I know.” Her voice was filled with self-loathing. “I did it all wrong. Just like in the garden.”
He let go of one of her wrists long enough to reach up to stroke some of her thick, short curls away from her eyes. “No. No, honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that this isn’t exactly how I wanted it—our first time—to be …”
The despair he’d seen in her hazel eyes fled, and was replaced by something he could not put a name to. “You thought about it before?” she asked eagerly. “You thought about you and me doing that?”
He had to clear his throat again. Really, he was not at all used to having these sorts of brutally frank conversations. But then, when Payton was involved, it was virtually impossible to have anything else. “About making love with you? Yes, of course I’ve thought about it. And this isn’t—”
“Really?” She’d begun to squirm beneath him in a manner that was entirely too provocative for his peace of his mind. “When?”
“When what?”
“When did you start thinking about making love with me?”
“When did I—” He broke off and shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to tell you, Payton, is that what you and I just did, that wasn’t how I—”
“It matters to me.”
If he hadn’t known her better, he might have suspected her
of pouting. But Payton Dixon never pouted. Threw punches, maybe, but never pouted.
“I never even knew you liked me,” she went on, “let alone thought about making love with me.”
“If you’d let me finish,” he said, between gritted teeth, “I’ll tell you about it.” He wasn’t gritting his teeth out of impatience, but because it was damned uncomfortable, having her squirming beneath him like that, when he was still so hard. Well, hell, what could anyone expect? It had been months since he’d last had a woman. And he’d never had one like this, who’d sat perched astride him with such insouciance, not caring a whit that her breasts were quite bare. Even now, he could feel her nipples, hardened into little pink pebbles from the ocean breeze that seeped in around them, pressing against his thickly matted chest hair.
“Well, I’m sorry,” Payton said, sounding a good deal more indignant than apologetic, “but I’ve never done anything like this before—”
“I should sincerely hope not,” he interrupted, horrified.
“And so I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I wish I could be vulnerable and feminine like Miss Whitby, but—”
“You’re not supposed to act like anything but yourself,” he ground out. “And certainly not like Becky Whitby.”
“Well.” She sniffed missishly. “It took you long enough to realize that.”
Now his teeth were gritted with impatience. “Payton. If we live through this—”
“What do you mean, if?” She looked up at him in astonishment, as if he had suddenly slipped into the early stages of dementia. “Don’t worry, Drake. We’ve been in much worse spots. This is nothing. I’ll get us out of this.”
She said it with such casual assurance that for a moment, the actual meaning of the words escaped him. When it finally did sink in, he was gripped by a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the air outside his cell, which had actually been daily growing warmer.
“No,” he said, reaching up to lay a hand upon either side of her face. “No, Payton, listen to me.”
He’d been a fool, he realized. He’d been a fool ever to kiss her in the first place. He ought to have done everything he could—everything he had been doing, before he’d let those lips of hers go to his head—to frighten her away, to convince her that he didn’t care for her. Maybe then she’d have done the sensible thing. Maybe then she’d have left this infernally damned ship …
But he’d let himself be distracted by the shape of that damned mouth of hers. Fool that he was.
“Payton, you’ve got to promise me that just as soon as an opportunity to get off this boat presents itself, you’ll take it. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself—”
She snorted at that. “Oh, and you’ve done an exemplary job so far.”
He tightened his grip on her face. “I mean it, Payton. It’s only dumb, blind luck that you haven’t been found out yet. How much longer do you think you can keep up this charade?”
She shrugged. “Indefinitely. Even Becky Whitby hasn’t recognized me. I don’t see why anyone else on board should—”
Incredible. He could not fathom how anyone could look at her and not see that she was a woman, in every sense of the word. The very thought of what would happen to her when someone finally did—and it was inevitable that someone would—made his blood run cold.
“Payton, you’ve got to—”
“Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes. “I heard you the first time, Drake. Let’s get back to what you were saying before, when you were talking about how you used to think about us making love.”
“No. Payton, you’ve got to promise me—”
But before he could get another word out, footsteps sounded outside Drake’s cell. She stiffened at once. “Tito’s coming back,” she said. “Let me go.”
He didn’t loosen his hold. “Promise me you’ll leave. Promise.”
She started squirming again. He noticed that this time, she was careful not to look him in the eye. “Drake—”
His fingers sank through the linen of her shirt, into the soft flesh of her upper arms. “Promise me.”
“God, all right, I promise. Now, let go—”
Tito opened the door just as Drake released her. Payton scrambled to her feet, adjusting her loosened clothing. Fortunately, the guard had eyes only for the greasy-looking fistful of food he held.
“Eh, ’Ill,” he said, between bites. “Cook wants ye.”
Hill—Jeremiah Hill—was the name Payton had told her fellow seamen she went by. In response to it, she reached down and lifted the empty cup and bowl left over from the first time she’d visited him. “I’m coming,” she said, to the toes of her shoes.
“Better ‘urry.” The giant was still chewing laconically. “Stove exploded. One o’ them bastards from the Mary B musta thrown some gunpowder in it. Never seen anythin’ like it. Dunderfunk all over the galley.” He swallowed, then lifted the wad of food in his hand, and bit into it again. Grease ran down his beard. “If you’re wantin’ any supper, you better get there soon, or it’ll be gone in no time.”
“Right. Thanks, Tito.” Payton rose, and without looking at Drake again, left the room.
Watching her walk away, Drake wondered how anyone could ever mistake her for a boy, even dressed in those baggy trousers. To him, it seemed as if her every movement screamed her femininity. The fact that that femininity had always been there, and he himself hadn’t noticed it until recently only served to rankle him further. All he could think about was what was going to happen when—and he knew it was a matter of when, not if—her true identity was discovered. He didn’t think he could bear it. Never had he felt so helpless, so ineffectual.
Helplessness was not an emotion Connor Drake was used to feeling. In fact, it was quite alien to him. As he sat slumped in his cell the rest of that night, however, he realized helplessness
was something he was going to have to get used to. At least so long as he was chained to this wall.
And at least as long as Payton Dixon remained on board this ship.