The sun shone with its customary brilliance a few days later, but Nathan saw little of it there deep in the forest.
He sat on a fallen tree trunk, the sounds of his crew working, along with the smell of the sea and burning besom brushes came from over his one shoulder; the backside of the bushes and rocks which surrounded Cate’s shack was to his other side.
He paused to scan the vicinity, his head canted to listen.
Nothing… yet.
“C’mon, show a leg, you skulking bastard,” he muttered to the trees.
The path leading to the aforementioned rocks was a mere biscuit toss away. Barely more than a rabbit trail, it was trampled enough to warrant his presence.
He resumed sharpening his sword, the whining metallic scrape of stone against blade barely audible for the birds chattering and carrying on over his head. He made the long, measured passes in a rhythm so often repeated through the years it had become as much a part of him as breathing. As he worked, he glanced at his sleeve Cate had recently mended.
Perfection! The woman was a wonder with a needle.
“A wonder at a good number of other things, mate,” he murmured, smiling.
The wonders those hands could wrought, he thought dreamily. The devil burn him, that woman was a magician, rendering him as randy as a lad of twenty. She could bring him to a finish, again and again. Like no one before, that was for bloody sure.
He glanced at the sky to check the time. The trees blocked the sun proper, but he could make it out near enough. A bit after the beginning of the First Watch, he reckoned. Plenty of time to finish his business there, and be back to her and her precious “siesta.” An admirable custom, that. Those grass-combing Spaniards at least got it right on that one. Two or three hours of lying abed with Cate and all in the name of tradition!
Praise the gods, she was better. No longer did he have to look at those dull eyes, the color of muddy, storm-churned shallows. They were clear and keen as ever; heaven help any man what sought to keep a secret from her. That sickly pallor—He’d seen dead squid look healthier—had finally pinked. Despair, despondency, dejection, desolation… she suffered them all; they hung like a shroud, veiling every attempt at normalcy. She smiled now, falteringly and with effort, but she smiled, nonetheless. And strike his buttons, she had laughed! That deep, throaty one of hers, like roughened velvet. It was what he had missed most. Before everything, it had been easy to invoke: a quip, a jibe, or one of Pryce’s stories. It was a fascination how someone who had suffered so much loss and sorrow in life could laugh so readily. Double the loss, when it had gone missing and small wonder. But it was back, as was she.
A heavy tread and cursing marked someone crashing through the bushes toward him. It had to be Thomas. For a big man, he could usually move with the stealth of a native. Just then, he sounded like a rampaging bull in a market.
Thomas batted a palm frond aside and drew up before him. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Expecting someone,” Nathan said without looking up.
Looking off into the forest, Thomas made a noncommittal noise. He took off his hat and swiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve.
“Pryce represents the Morganse will swim tonight?”
Nathan slowly lowered his sword and peered up. “Aye, ‘tis the flood.”
Every tar worth his salt knew it was the full moon, the tide at the month’s highest. Sometimes Thomas could be as tight-lipped as a virgin on her knees, but just then he was as transparent as an old storm jib. Nathan bent back to his work, waiting. Like oil on water, whatever was on his friend’s mind would soon rise to the surface.
“I’ll bid my men to bear a hand on those guns,” Thomas announced, angling his head in the general direction of the bay’s mouth, where many of the Morganse’s great guns had been posted. “We can get those shipped straightaway. All you need do is rattle down the shrouds and rig enough to make weigh.”
Nathan paused to peer up from under his brows. “I gather I’m in a grand hurry?”
“You are.”
The oil was glimmering on the water already. Nathan waited expectantly; Thomas was as full of himself as a preacher on the Sabbath.
“You have a rendezvous at Ransom Passage,” Thomas finally announced.
“I do?” Nathan said, never missing a stroke. “And who, pray tell, am I in such a hurry to meet?”
Thomas hesitated, allowing the suspense to build. “Creswicke.”
Nathan shook his head in disinterest. “Pah! Not interested in another one of his minions sent to—”
“Not a minion. T’will be the Lord-on-high himself, in the flesh.”
Nathan paused to flick an eye up at him. No, he wasn’t jesting; one elbow always twitched when Thomas was jesting or spinning yarns, but he was as steady as a mast just then, so proud of himself he was about to pop a cork.
“Not bloody likely; he never comes out of that stronghold of his,” Nathan said.
He tested the blade’s edge with his thumb. It flared bright in a shaft of sunlight slipping through the branches. He nodded in satisfaction. Keen and lethal.
“He is this time. He’ll be there,” Thomas insisted.
Nathan eyed his friend as he wiped the blade with an oiled cloth and then stowed it. “How the hell can you be so sure?”
Grinning, Thomas shrugged. “I did as anyone would: I offered up what he wanted most.”
He sat back, his eye sharpening. “Which is?”
Thomas’ grin widened. “You, on a silver platter.”
Nathan eyed his friend as he drew the knife from his boot and set the honestone to it. “Is this a double-cross or a triple?”
The big blond head turned and stared at the forest. “Depends on where you start counting,” he said, after a long consideration.
The head turned back, the grin firmly in place. “Hark ye, he’ll be there on the fifteenth.”
Nathan jerked. “That’s barely a week away.”
“Exactly.”
“And the Passage is at least a two, mebbe three-day sail.”
“Exactly, which is why you have to show a leg,” Thomas said eagerly, nudging Nathan’s knee with his big fist.
Nathan continued to hone the blade’s edge, his mind already racing, calculating all which needed to be done. Ship the guns, to be sure; powder needed to be checked and dried, if necessary; shot and cartridges prepared…
There was the possibility that this would be a man-to-man confrontation, he mused, testing the blade with his thumb. Highly unlikely, given His High-Arsednesses cowardliness.
He clenched his fist, trying to steady it.
Easy, mate… Time…
Nathan fixed a wary eye on him. “I’m supposed to burn the waters to sail straight into an ambush?” It could be one of Thomas’ elaborate jests; he wasn’t usually so inclined, but it had been weeks of boredom.
“Exactly… except you’ll be the one doing the ambushing.” Thomas winked or, rather, tried. It wasn’t one of his best skills.
“Ransom Passage is damned awkward waters. The bottom sure as hell isn’t your friend.”
“Exactly. That is why he was so willing to believe you’d be there. No one else would be that daft.”
When the hell Thomas would have schemed this up was a wonder? Still, it came as no great surprise. Both of them lived in a world filled to the gun’ls with duplicity and back-stabbing, Thomas being among the best at that sport. That big, genial smile belied a devious mind. Still, Ransom Passage was a savvy choice: few knew of it, and even fewer braved its rocks and currents.
“Dare I hope the rest of this folly is planned?” Nathan asked warily.
Crouching on his haunches, Thomas leaned closer, a conspiratorial—dare he say, piratical gleam in his eye? “Simple. We lie in wait—”
“We?”
“Aye, me n’ Creswicke,” Thomas said off-handedly, irritated by the interruption. “We lie in wait for you to come through the Passage—”
“Belay and back that sail a bit. ‘You and Creswicke?’” Nathan asked, cocking his head.
Thomas exhaled through his nose, snorting like an old truffle hog. “He thinks it’ll be the Lovely and him lying in wait.”
“And…?”
“And she will be, until,” Thomas said, with a knowing waggle of his brows, “the Morganse shows. Then I slip my anchor, swing about and we have him in a crossfire!”
“And if he’s not in the right place for this maneuver?”
Thomas sat back, smug. “He will be. The charts I gave him will make sure of that. I might have exaggerated just a little,” he went on with an equivocating gesture, “on the tides in there, as well, so he should be sure to stay clear of the reefs.”
“Reefs that don’t exist.” Nathan shook his head. “Your charts always were a travesty.”
Nathan’s hand moved with the honestone almost on its own volition, as his mind worked out a myriad of factors: wind, tide, current… Thomas had chosen his ground well, he thought grudgingly. The Passage was defined by headlands, high enough to block the masts of any approaching ship. By the time the Morganse was spotted, she would be already within range, or damn near to it, if, if His Holy-Lordship was lying where expected.
Excitement was clouding his judgment. His heart raced like his first time with a whore. He set down the stone to wipe his sweating palm on his breeches.
He looked up to find Thomas watching him, like a dog fixed on a bone, damn near salivating.
“The fifteenth, eh? You realize he’ll be there on the fourteenth?” Nathan said finally.
Thomas didn’t blink. “That’s why I aim to be there on the twelfth, at the latest. By Christ, we’ve got the bastard this time!”
Nathan considered. It was all too damned easy, too bloody-damned convenient… and too damned good to pass up. “One ship?”
Thomas jerked a nod. “One ship. He’s expecting shallow waters; he won’t bring anything bigger than a thirty-gun.”
Nathan snorted. “Nay, he’ll leave the seventy-two-gun to lie in wait for us when we come out.”
“Aye, I figure probably more like two sailing in consort.” Thomas twisted his jaw in thought. “The way I see it, the Lovely can entertain them until the Morganse can join in after she’s finished off His Lordship. I’m assuming the Morganse will lend a hand?” he added, teasing.
“T’would be her honor,” Nathan said, ducking a bow from his seat.
Suffering Jesus on the cross, it was tempting. He allowed himself time to muse on the picture of blowing His High-Arsedness to kingdom come; his guts scattering to the four winds; the gulls chasing his eyeball rolling about the deck; more gulls squabbling over his eyeless head bobbing in the sea.
He jerked himself back to reality and heaved a pained sigh. “’Tis tempting, damned tempting, but I can’t.”
Thomas blenched, damned near going the color—or lack thereof—of his shirt. “Why the hell not?”
Nathan gave Thomas a level look. “I promised Cate I wouldn’t go after His Lordship, or anyone else for that matter. I damned near had to sign in me own blood,” he added heatedly.
He stared at the knife in his hand. It was a damned awkward admission. He still found himself wondering how in the hell the manipulating wench had coerced him into it? Well, hell, he knew exactly, was he honest.
“I won’t be here when you come back.”
The cold resolution of those words were enough to shrivel a man’s balls. He dared any man to face her down, Thomas included.
Thomas launched to his feet in disbelief. He propped his hands on his hips, glaring down. “This is Creswicke, out of that damned fortress of his, with his neck bared. All you have to do is lop off his head.”
“I promised I wouldn’t go after him.” No one appreciated being given a round turn for something he never wished to agree to in the first place.
“Sweet bleeding Jesus, this isn’t going after him,” Thomas bellowed, extolling the sky. “This is him coming after you! It’s entirely different.”
“I’ll allow you to explain that.”
Thomas stiffened and squared his shoulders. “Very well, if I have to, I will.”
Nathan rolled an eye up. “You don’t value your hide by much, do you? You know what she’s like when she’s taken a notion.”
“I know, I know! But bloody hell, Nathan, think, man!”
“I am,” Nathan shot back, bullishly.
“No, you aren’t,” came back even more bullish. “Cate’s sensible. She’ll see the light… if it’s put to her the right way.”
Thomas stomped back and forth, jerking off his hat and running a frustrated hand through his hair. It had been bound earlier, but in his agitation, it now looked like he’d been on the foredeck in a tops’l blow.
“This is Creswicke himself, in the flesh, waiting with opened arms.” Thomas leaned down to shove his face into Nathan’s. “Think of it: Creswicke, at your mercy. Hell, I’ll hold him for you!”
“No,” Nathan said in a low voice. “I have several things in mind, none of which require assistance.”
And he did. Many, many… many hours had been spent imagining His Pompousness’ end. It would mean a world without the bastard, as it was going to have to be, sooner or later. Whether Cate knew it or no, she would have no peace while he still walked the earth.
“All you have to do is sweep in and take him. Show her who the hell the man is here!” Thomas declared, waving his fist.
“I can’t. I promised.”
Every fiber of his being screamed to drop everything and be away on the morning’s tide, rigging be damned. He’d use his shirt and handkerchief for sails, if necessary… This was a prime, one-and-only, answer-to-his-prayers opportunity, delivered on the same silver platter as Thomas meant to deliver him. Only one thought, one word stopped him: Cate.
There would be a battle for sure, and a bloody one at that, and he would be putting her right in the middle of it. She was too fragile. Hell, just Hermione stepping on a twig made her jump. Full broadsides would be her undoing.
But this is Creswicke!
His hand shook so hard he dropped the stone.
Oh, to see the look on his His High-Arsedness’ face—that last look, before his life was snuffed out—it would be worth it all.
Including losing her?
Nay, not that, she wouldn’t leave me over that… surely.
She couldn’t hold him to this… not this! This was more temptation than even Adam could bear. This wasn’t what she meant! She had been talking about going off on some half-crazed rampage, crossing the seas, not having the bastard virtually dropped in his lap.
Movement caught Nathan’s eye, and he straightened. Someone was coming up the path. Slow and cautious he was, not out of stealth, but because he was no landsman; an ant in his way could trip him up. Nathan’s lift of his fingers brought Thomas to full alert as he slipped down from his perch. Thomas veered out to flank whoever it was; Nathan picked his way through the bushes, angling to intercept the man—Fysh, waister, starbolin watch, and a Bristol. This stump-winged cove had been trouble before: the day the two wastrel lads had dared lay hands on Cate. He was the skulking, weasel sort, one of that sea-lawyer Hyde’s pack.
So intent on his destination, Fysh didn’t notice Nathan until he nearly ran into him. He jerked to a halt with a startled curse.
“Your mate came snooping through here just days ago,” Nathan observed.
Mute, Fysh’s eyes darted from side to side like the cornered rat that he was.
“I told you and that chuckle-headed—and now dead—mate o’ yours molesting her would be at your peril.”
Fysh was sweating far more than what was fitting even for this heat and jungle atmosphere. He flashed a nervous smile. “Ain’t no molestin’. Don’t mean no harm; I was just—”
“Just what?” Nathan barked. He moved closer, bringing his knife up into view. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Fysh jerked at seeing Thomas step out of the bushes. He swiped his face, the sweat now streaming down it.
“You were bid to treat her as you would treat your dear mum,” Nathan said ominously. “Are you accustomed to ogling your mum? Rather unnatural, wouldn’t you say?” Nathan directed to Thomas.
“Low and unnatural, indeed,” Thomas replied sternly.
“Unnatural, indeed,” Nathan echoed, fixing a cold eye on Fysh. “But just looking wasn’t your aim, was it, Mister Fysh?” The last was barked with a sharpness that made the man twitch.
“What you were planning to do: are you meaning for us to believe you would do that with your mum?” Nathan went on, pressing closer yet.
Fysh’s mouth moved like his namesake’s.
“Nothing lower than a man what would do that with his mum,” Nathan went on, now inches away and glaring. “A man what would do that is a man what needs to be put out of his misery.”
Fysh finally found his voice. “You can’t just kill me outright! I deserve a hearing.” He jerked his head in triumph.
“Really?” Nathan said, unimpressed. “Dereliction of a direct order and unnatural behavior,” he announced louder and then asked, without taking his eyes off the accused “Captain Thomas, how say you?”
“’Tis the way I see it.”
“Mr. Pryce?” Nathan directed toward the bushes.
The leaves moved and Pryce stepped into view. “Aye, ‘tis as I see it.”
“And Mr. Hodder?”
From the opposite direction, the bosun appeared from behind a palmetto thicket. “Aye, as I see it, as well,”
“A jury of your mates has found you guilty—” Nathan declared.
Fysh spun around toward Pryce. “You can’t do this! You—”
The convicted’s back now to him, Nathan swept an arm around his neck and drove his knife in, up and under the ribs and into his kidney. Fysh let out a strangled yelp of shock and pain, and crumpled to the ground. He rolled and thrashed his last few moments on this earth, but Nathan was already moving away. The flies would be collecting soon, and the man stunk bad enough alive.
“’Twas just as well. A blade to the throat always makes such a mess,” he said, wiping his blade on a leaf. “Call his mates to bear a hand. Let’s see if they are smarter than that stump over there and can learn their lesson,” he directed to Pryce.
“Why the hell did he try that?” Thomas said, standing over the body. “We couldn’t have surprised him. We were making enough noise to wake the dead.”
“Aching balls are known to cause a man to go blind, deaf and stupid,” Nathan observed coldly.
He made his way up the path toward the beach, Thomas falling easily in step at his side. His mind returned to the more urgent business to hand.
Damnation and seize his soul, he had promised Cate.
He closed his eyes and prayed to whatever gods might be listening that they might smile upon him on this one.
“Very well, I’ll do it,” he heard himself say.
Thomas drew to a halt and gaped. “You mean it?”
“Are you going deaf or feeble, or both?”
For a moment, he thought Thomas was on the verge of cavorting about like a giant court – jester. Instead, he hooted with joy and clapped his hands, then slapped Nathan on the back so hard it nearly knocked off his hat.
Finally, Thomas sobered enough to say “He’ll be looking for you out of the west, so come in from the east, preferably with the morning sun. I’m thinking you mightn’t show up, until the sixteenth. Let’s make him sweat for a day,” he added with unseemly deviousness.
Nathan nodded distantly, already deep in working out a number of the finer points. “Likely he’ll have lookouts posted ashore.”
Thomas waved away the thought. “Aye, and he’ll wait for their signal in vain. We’ll serve them out directly.”
Nathan attempted a smile, but failed. Thomas had planned it out, as he did everything, truth be told. A bit of nostalgia overcame him; it would be like the old days. A number of capers they had executed and in grand style. They knew each other well; there would be no surprises; decisions could be made without counsel; two ships acting as one mind. It should all go swimmingly.
Cate.
God’s blood, she was too fragile to deal with any of this. She was better, but her well-being still hung by a fine thread. She was like a round shot cast loose on a pitching deck; the least unexpected lurch and she would be gone, lost to him forever.
“I’ve only one condition.” He stopped and turned to stab a finger into Thomas’ chest. “You have to take Cate.”
Thomas’ jubilation faded. “She won’t—”
“I don’t care what ‘she won’t’!” he shot back heatedly. His gut took a violent heave.
Christ, don’t let me puke.
“You and I both know the worst of the fighting will be aimed at me. I don’t want her anywhere near me. Won’t be able to think if I’m worried for her the whole time. Take her with you; see her safe.”
On this he was firm; he wouldn’t touch a halyard until this was settled. He had just gotten her back, seen her whole and now this…
How the bloody hell did a dream suddenly turn into a nightmare?
If the worst were to happen, if this were all to go pear-shaped—and if it did, it would happen fast—then she would be where she needed to be: with Thomas, someone who could care for her. He could die easier with that thought. Death or victory was the only two options in this endeavor. Someone would be dead by the end of the day; whether it was himself or His Pompousness was something only the Fates knew, at this point. They would reveal themselves in due time.
He closed his eyes and reached out as he had seen Mum do so many times as a lad. Yes, it would be well… it had to be.
“The Lovely will take her hits,” Thomas pointed out.
“Aye, true enough,” Nathan said distractedly. Hell and death, was there no place she will be safe? The Passage was formed by two islands, however…
“When you’re sure you’ve served out those look-outs, take her ashore. You’ll be there early enough; put her on Tumbledown Island; Dead Goat doesn’t have enough shade to keep a scorpion alive. Do you need men to watch her, capable and trustworthy ones?”
“Nay, I have several.”
Thomas wasn’t happy about the prospect. Well, damn his eyes, this was all his idea, so he could jolly well take the dressing down, too.
“You sneaky worm, you’re making me have to deal with her through this.”
“You damned right. I don’t envy you one bit.”
Nathan led the way back up the path, toward the beach, pushing his way through the undergrowth, Thomas a fraction of a step behind him.
“You diabolical bastard,” Nathan finally declared with grudging admiration. This plan was a coup, indeed. “Why the hell didn’t you speak up earlier?”
Thomas lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “I knew you wouldn’t budge until Cate was in a condition to be moved. The Morganse is ready to swim; Cate’s up and about, so it was time to put my cards on the table.”
“And if you hadn’t been able to deliver me on the fifteenth?”
“Then I would have to rely on my charms and renegotiate a different time,” Thomas said blithely.
Nathan cocked a suspicious eye up at him. “And what, pray tell, are you getting out of all of this?” Thomas had to have had something on the table, something very big, or Creswicke would have never bought into the scheme.
Thomas’ expression darkened. “Several things,” he said into his chest. “Suffice to say, there will be justice for all concerned.”
Nathan glanced back over his shoulder, puzzled, but dismissed it. Every man had his sense of justice, and no man had the right to deny him.
“When do you aim to haul anchor?” he asked instead.
“Day after tomorrow.”
Nathan closed his eyes and swayed. When jubilation should have been his company, he was cold and half-ill with dread.
Soon… too damned soon.
“Very well, I’ll tell her.” His chest tightened like the life was being squeeze out of him.
“You damned right,” Thomas said vehemently. “I sure as hell don’t wanna be the one walking into that maelstrom.”
Both fell quiet, considering what they were about to face, not only Cate—that right there was enough to make a f’c’stleman blench—but the entire endeavor. In every cloud there was a silver lining: Cate was healed, but her spirit was still wounded, a shadow of its former self. Oh, aye, she spoke her peace, still had a backbone like a great gun’s ramrod, but there was no fire. It was all just a flash in a priming pan. And in that, could be his salvation when it came time to tell her.
Arriving at the path’s head, Thomas drew up and clapped a big hand on Nathan’s shoulder, giving him a brotherly shake. “It’ll be grand!”
“Yes, grand,” Nathan said dully.
Nathan stood watching Thomas stride up the beach. He brusquely rubbed his hands over his face, hoping to wake himself from this nightmare. He cracked one eye open, peering out over his knuckles.
No such luck.
Footsteps coming up behind him reminded him that Pryce and Hodder were still with him.
“You heard,” he sighed as the pair drew up. Thomas had a voice befitting of a bosun.
They nodded solemnly, ready and expectant of further orders.
“Keep this under-hatches at to the what and where until we are under weigh. It will have to be watch-on-watch to have the ship squared away in time.”
The pair nodded in stern unison; no surprises there.
Nathan drew a deep breath and blew it out. He had to mark this day for nothing would be the same after this.
Please, just let me keep her, he silently prayed.
“On to it then.”
Ship and crew be damned! He needed Cate, and he needed her now!
He came up the path to an empty yard, the fire burned down to mere coals. And yet, she was there… somewhere. He could feel her… smell her. He searched about with the determination of knowing that: not inside; not in the pool or thereabouts; the chairs were all empty…
About the time his heart began to thud with panic, he caught sight of a patch of mahogany in the hammock. Only a small surprise there; she tended to fall asleep wherever she stopped these days. She laid with her head slightly turned away, one hand splayed on her stomach, the other propped against her chin, as if using it for a pillow. He stood for some minutes, watching her. She slept with a slight frown, a slight crease between those angel-wing brows as if it were a serious business. Her lips were slightly parted, a lock of hair bending and straightening with each breath.
God help him, there was a peace to be had when lying next to her, one never found anywhere else. Had someone inquired a year ago, he would have declared such a thing didn’t exist, and yet, there it was, a euphoria one would have accredited to Fiddler’s Green right there waiting for him.
Were he a civil man, he would leave her be, or perhaps hazard swinging the hammock gently, allowing her a breeze. It was a sultry afternoon; small beads of moisture shone on her upper lip. He was feeling a lot of things, but civil was most definitely not among them. Had she wished her rest, she would have gone to bed. Nay, she was out there, waiting for him, anxious as he, perhaps.
It was a wonder if she burned for him as much as he burned for her? Certainly not…? But if…?
God’s my life! What keeps us from killing each other?
He bent to inhale her first. She had that heady sweet smell of a woman, hers particularly enchanting. It was overlaid with the smell of roses and lavender from the soap he had bought her and the sharper yet essence of jasmine from the powder Thomas had brought. She wore naught but the banyan; he could tell by the way her nipples pressed against the silk, round and hard as pistol balls.
Nay, she had made herself ready for him and a civil man wouldn’t disappoint.
When the sweet curve of her mouth in repose was just too tempting to resist any longer, he leaned to kiss her. She wasn’t startled as he had feared; she could be as jumpy as a f’c’stlejack denied his grog these days. Instead, she responded as if he was expected and long overdue. She roused, one arm curving up around his neck and then the other.
“Come to me,” she murmured drowsily.
He allowed himself to be drawn down and enjoyed her mouth for a good while. She grew more ardent and determined, and so very convincing. He glanced around the yard as he continued to kiss her. Rarely did anyone come poking about, and there were a few positions in that half-rotted journal she’d found which were intriguing, to say the least. But alas, what he wished to do with her couldn’t be achieved whilst watching over one’s shoulder.
“Nay, come, darling,” he said.
When he withdrew, she drifted back to sleep, perhaps thinking him no more than a dream. Gadso, it meant her dreams were as lustful as his! With that new and intriguing thought, he scooped her up, looking down at her with a new sense of admiration and wonder.
Her head lolling on his shoulder, he carried her into the shack. It was easy to carry her… too easy. She was wretchedly thin. He had never seen her like this, not even her first day aboard. One could count her ribs then—a small detail observed while that black-hearted, scrub of a sea – lawyer Bullock and his pack were accosting her. Between him and Kirkland, they had managed to fatten her up, but now… She went through the motions of eating, to please those around her, but when it was all said and done, little left the plate.
He laid her gently on the bed and stood back.
His greatest fear was of lying with her for the last time and not knowing it. Providence wielded a wicked sword and could strike without warning, as they both well knew. Now, he knew he had discovered a new hell: knowing.
But, by Satan’s own damned and cursed horns, this would not be their last! There would be tomorrow, and many and many more after that.
As he undid the sash of the banyan her eyes opened. Lucid and deep turquoise as the waters of a reef they were. He spread back the silk and took her in as he threw off his own clothes, the robe being flung aside at the last.
Nay, this wasn’t their last time, but he made love to her like it was.
She cradled him in her arms as he suckled like a babe, while those divine fingers did what they did best, bringing him to a stand that almost rendered him useless for all but one thing. He discovered a delightful patch of skin at the hollow just above the small of her back which had heretofore gone unnoticed. He gave it exquisite attention as he did every part of her. The places he found the most delightful were the very ones in which she took the most delight: the delectable bump on the inside of her lower lip, the wondrous crease at the underside of her breast and the enchanting dip, where her thigh joined her hip.
Each time he entered her, he knew there was, indeed, a heaven on earth. Picking up on his urgency, she sought to relinquish her needs for his, but her finish was the greatest part of his joy, seeing her arch up to meet him, hearing that little growling moan she always made as her body stroked his, bringing him to his shattering end.
When neither had anymore to give, she drifted off to sleep, as she always did these days after any exertion. Limp as a doll again, he held her as if she were one, rocking gently and stroking her hair. He traced her features again and again, outlining without touching, lest he wake her, but near enough to feel her heat on his fingertips.
He closed his eyes and shook at the thought of losing her, then cursed himself, for this was much ado about nothing, a tempest in a teacup. He would kill His Pompousness straightaway—Aye, well, after making the man suffer until he begged for death—and she could be back in his arms in a matter of days, not even so long as a week. But Christ, he couldn’t make four hours without wanting her; a day seemed an insurmountable eternity.
When he could bear it no more, he bent his head and kissed her, a gentle touching of the lips, enough to rouse her, but not enough to wake her. She smiled against his mouth, and made a little pleasured humming sound and then slipped back to her oblivion. He peered anxiously into her face, wondering if that little curve at the corners of her mouth was just that quirky little trait, as it always seemed to do on its own, or was she truly happy enough to smile in her sleep?
“Lord God, let it be so.”
At length, and all too soon, he heard Hodder and Pryce coming up the path, their voices raised so as to announce themselves and knew he must go. He could ignore his ship no longer. One man caught between two women was an erotic notion for many, to be sought and then bandied about. The reality of it was a ship was far more demanding than a woman. A woman could be talked to and charmed, appeased in a myriad of ways. A ship would truck with none of that. It required, nay demanded his presence, his full attention and nothing less.
Sliding out from under Cate, he tucked her in and gave her a parting kiss. Her eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded with somnolence and fulfillment.
“I’ll come to you when I might.”
And then, he slipped away.