He shifted to relieve his discomfort. Hell, he had to have her. Desire wreaked havoc on his resolution to stay away from her. His mind howled to take her. And had she not, for several heated moments revealed she wanted the act as much as he had? Perhaps his mind exaggerated her needs on that score.
He shifted once more and attempted to quell the storm surging in his blood. He’d have her soon enough, he promised.
But he did not want her later.
He desired her now.
So why did it feel like he was stretched out on the rack of self-contempt? Why had he listened to her blasphemous tirade? Why was it he who was the victim? Devon Blackmon, the ruthless Black Devil Pirate who sailed a flotilla of pirate ships should bow and scrape to a mere slip of a girl who still regarded him like the plague. He would be the laughingstock of his men if they were to know of his care for her.
Oh yes, he could offer her wealth beyond measure, but stability lay far beyond his reach. At war with humanity, he was an outlaw, a homeless outcast, his only freedom exercised on the seas, his destiny shaped over the next horizon.
Devon had taught her the secrets of pleasure. He had not taken her womanhood owed to him by right of her true flesh and blood husband. It flayed at him like a hundred cat-o’-nine-tails.
Bloodsmythe joined him at the rail and spoke into the quiet. “I had lean years with my wife until she died with the fever. Those years gave me a strong thirst for a better life. And I found it with her.” He let that thought drift over to Devon to ruminate. A useless activity, Devon preferred to abandon.
The conjured image of Claire, his wife, in his bed, all for the taking and he nothing but a thief and pirate, echoed through his mind. A demented laugh sprang from his throat. His gunner looked sharply to him. Bloodsmythe’s confusion laughable.
“Ye’ve done nothing to make ye regret have ye, Captain?”
“Not a damned thing.”
Bloodsmythe looked at him a minute, then looked out to sea. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that maybe ye need a bit more to occupy that clever brain of yours. Do ye ever dream to settle down, take a wife, create a child or two of your own?”
“Don’t you think you ought to be taking your own advice?”
“Aye. With a good woman,” the old salt said. “One that can cook and fill my stomach. And while we’re on the topic of food. Since our cook could never curb his sickness of the sea, and departed for dry land, our victuals are nothing to recommend, observing the fact, Young Johnnie has tried his best. The men are in a terrible temper.”
“And so am I.”
Bloodsmythe viewed him with a skeptical eye. “But your temper comes not from bad food. Do you think I’m blind? Ye’re as touchy as a stallion locked in a barn with a burr under his saddle. Ye can’t take your eyes off of her for one moment. I saw it during the plague. I saw it every time she came near to where we were working on that purgatory of Jamaica. And here you come like Lord Triton, sweeping her up off a wave, all for your taking, and you don’t know what to do about it. Marry the wench and get it over with.”
“Watch your tongue, old man. What I do or don’t do is no business of yours.” Devon wanted to grab his gunner by the shirt and toss him across the sea.
“I see ye’re Irish temper brewing. Sulking won’t do you any good.”
Devon stewed in frustration. The bell rang for the watch to change. Wouldn’t Bloodsmythe’s eyes bulge if he were to know he was already married to her? Without turning his head, Devon spoke to his old friend. “It’s a long story. Complicated.”
“If I remember, most things with you, Captain always were.” He clasped his hand upon Devon’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, and then bid him goodnight.
Claire watched the wick burn low. Her spirits flagged. Soon she would be cast in darkness, tied to a bed with no avenue of escape. Her prison walls remained layered−ropes that bound her, a locked cabin, a ship full of pirates, and their brutal master at the helm, beyond that lay miles of endless ocean. Claire looked about the cabin, refusing to remain a prisoner. The pearls he dropped lay cold upon her. His words lashed at her.
Claire worked her right hand free. She smiled with the small miracle.
In the table next to the bed, the drawer where he scarfed up his pearls remained open. If only she could reach inside to find something sharp to cut the remainder of her bonds.
Pivoting her weight, Claire strained against the ropes and stretched her free hand as far as possible, rewarded that the drawer lay within her grasp. Pleased with her triumph, she reached in and fingered the contents. Her heart sank, coins, papers, nothing. Tears came to her eyes. She condemned self-pity and stretched further, rifling under a book. Surely, her arm would detach. Her fingers seized upon something smooth and sharp. A knife. Claire closed her eyes, her hand secured upon the hilt. Claire let out a deep breath and sawed the rope, binding her one arm. In seconds, she cut free. Giddy with her success, she vowed to wipe that arrogant smile off his face.
Boots pounded in the passageway. Claire shoved the knife under the pillow, winding her freed hand in the rope. Keys jangled in the lock. The door opened. Bloodsmythe. She remembered him from her uncle’s plantation. He had assisted Cookie during the plague. He glanced at her bonds, and his eyebrows shot up. His face turned as red as a sunset. Saying nothing, he lifted her trunk into the cabin then departed, locking the door behind him.
There would be no rescue from that quarter. Claire retrieved the knife and cut the remainder of her bonds. To get the circulation going, she rubbed her wrists and ankles, not even trying to suppress a slight groan.
Free for the first time, she explored Devon’s cabin. Luxurious in appointments, it possessed bright tapestries, a padded settle under glazed windows, warm oak furnishings, and a massive bed with artfully carved sea-stars, mermaids and shells that testified to the fanciful tendencies of its creator. Or more, the ostentatious taste of the original Spanish owner.
Claire looked through his closet and chest. Awed by the rich fabrics he now wore, she fingered the fine silk of his white shirts. Maps and charts were spread over a desk. What did pirates do in their spare time? Looking at the rows of books cradled in shelves, she traced her fingers over the spines, reading the titles. His library would impress Lily. Claire pulled theThe Whole Art of Navigationoff the shelf, sat down and stretched on the cushions of the settle to study. Too agitated to concentrate on Mr. Kelly’s alterations, she began to pace the cabin.
