He’d always paid close attention to women’s hair. Not so much for the styles, but because its condition was an indicator of health and hygiene habits, and played a big part in deciding with whom he’d share a bed. Or a convenient wall. He was especially fond of long hair. Loved to see it splayed across his pillow or forming a curtain around his face when his partner was on top. He liked to unpin it, let it cascade over her naked shoulders, and spill through his fingers like silk.
He’d had many a pleasant interlude at an otherwise dull ball, and after their fun he’d help her dress again and pin her hair back up, avoiding the need for her maid, enabling them both to return to the event with no one the wiser except for the afterglow of pleasure.
When there was time, he could make the brushing slow, relaxing. Ease her stress from the day until she practically purred like a cat, her scalp tingling with pleasure, her body melting in his arms. And he knew how to stir her to arousal, interspersing the gentle brush strokes with touches and kisses until she was ready to tear his clothes off, eager to lift her skirts for him.
Miss Chase wore no skirts.
As he untangled another section of hair, her breathing gradually slowed and her shoulders dropped, proof that pretending to be captain and bantering with Ruford had been more stressful for her than he’d thought.
Another section smooth, Nick pushed it in front of her left shoulder. Purely coincidence that his fingertips brushed her neck again each direction.
He froze when he realized the dark spot below her ear wasn’t a freckle. It was the healing mark where a large splinter had pierced her skin. His hand faltered.
She started to turn her head to look at him. He gently pushed her chin forward, and began brushing the last, middle section. He lifted the brush to smooth the underside, making sure his fingers dipped just inside her collar and grazed the skin of her nape all the way up to her hairline. With her hair gathered in his hand and lifted, the wound on her neck stood out like an accusation.
He’d been proud of her when she jumped in to help protect the ship, and terrified she’d be hurt. Delighted at how well she’d learned what to do in firing the guns, but seeing blood on her neck and temple had shaken him.
This see-sawing of his emotions was bewildering. And exhausting.
He focused on the silver chain around her neck. He slid a finger under it, testing its heft, then let it drop, the delicate chain once more disappearing under her collar. “You haven’t lost it.”
“I never take it off.” She pulled out the silver H pendant and reverently stroked it. “In the letter that accompanied it, Papa said it was the key to my future.”
Nick thought it looked more like part of a horse’s tack. With a mother and five sisters, though, he’d learned the hard way to never say anything derogatory about a woman’s jewelry.
“’Let us walk honestly, as in the day’,” Nick quoted softly, “‘not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying.’”
At her murmur of confusion, he went on. “That’s what Adam, my father, said was the key to my future. Romans thirteen, verse thirteen.” He gave a snort of derision. “Made me recite it hundreds of times. Thousands. Hypocrite.” A well as verse fourteen, ‘But put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfill the lusts thereof.’ Best not to think about lust right now. Certain parts of his anatomy were doing it just fine on their own.
“He phrased it in those words? The key to your future?”
Nick paused, the brush halfway down her hair, and thought back. Letters, lectures, conversations at dinner—how many times had his father delivered pious sermons to him, admonishing him to follow these two scriptures? “Yes.” He resumed brushing.
Miss Chase hummed again, though he wasn’t sure if it was in response to his verbal reply or pleasure in the hair brushing.
He ran his fingers through her now tangle-free hair. He had no excuse to keep brushing, but he didn’t want to stop touching her. Without conscious thought, he separated her hair into three sections and began braiding.
He was past her collar when she realized what he was doing and again tried to look over her shoulder at him. Again he gently pushed her face forward, three fingers lingering on her jaw. He’d mixed up the sections when he let go with one hand, so he smoothed out the braid and started over.
“You weren’t joking when you offered your services as lady’s maid.”
Nick chuckled.
“Did you learn on your sisters’ hair?”
Nick snorted. “The closest I got to their plaits was in the schoolroom when I threatened to chop them off when the girls annoyed me.” He didn’t think Miss Chase would appreciate knowing he’d actually learned by braiding his horse’s mane.
“Oh, of course! You learned to braid your own hair when you went to sea. Is having long hair in a queue a requirement for being a pirate? Excuse me—privateer.”
“Honest merchantman,” Nick corrected reflexively, grinning. He was just a few inches from finishing.
She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Braiding is just another skill, like navigating around the globe or eluding capture. And of course you have to be able to do your own hair, as you don’t always have a valet or cabin boy handy. You and Jonesy are clearly friends, not just captain and first mate, but I can’t see you two sitting at the table, braiding each other’s hair.”
Laughing at the mental image her words conjured, Nick dropped his head, resting his hands on her shoulders, the end of the plait caught between one thumb and forefinger.
She held a hand up, the short leather cord dangling from her fingers, the side of her mouth that he could see curved in a smile.
He took it and tied off the plait. “It’s just a way to keep it out of my eyes and not worry about it being tangled by the wind. Or needing to get it cut.” He glanced around the cabin. “Don’t move.”
