Skye swore, she flailed at him. He avoided her pummeling with amusement and quickly did away with the offending garments. “Calm down!” he charged her. And capturing her shoulders, he straddled her. She wasn’t aware at first that he had her shift, and that he was trying to slip it over her shoulders. “Lady Kinsdale, I do swear, it is far more difficult to dress you than it has ever been to charm and unclothe any tender maid in all of my days.”
“I daresay you’ve never known a tender maid!” Skye retorted. She quickly slipped her arms into the silken straps of the garment and faced him again, flushed and furious. He stood by the bed, watching her with a curious expression, his eyes the color of fog and steel, a pallor seeming to touch his face. She noted that his fists were clamped hard at his sides. He did not rise to her retort. It occurred to Skye that her shift defined more than it concealed, that her breasts were pressed strainingly against the bodice of the gossamer undergarment, and that the line of her hip and the soft triangle at the juncture of her thighs were hauntingly evident.
“Why do you humiliate me like this!” she cried suddenly. “Why this slow torture—”
“Milady, I promise,” he interrupted her dryly, “the torture I do is to myself.”
“Then…”
“Then what?”
“Then…stop it!” she whispered.
“Alas,” he murmured, and the word carried a tender and wistful sound, “I have discovered that I cannot.” He turned swiftly away from her, finding the dress. “Come, Skye, let’s set this upon your shoulders and ease both our souls.”
Skye…
He had used her given name. He had used it with the ease of a friend or relation, or of a lover. She should have despised the sound of it upon his tongue, but she did not. She should have ignored his command, but she could not. She crawled from the bed and stepped to him slowly. She reached up as he deftly set the yards of muslin over her head and arms. He twirled her around and set to the twenty-one tiny buttons that closed the dress. He was deft with his movement, as if he was well-acquainted with women’s fashion. She began to tap a bare toe as his fingers brushed her back.
“Are you done?” she inquired.
“Umm. You intended to do this alone?”
“The intent of such a gown is to have one’s maids along. But since those poor lasses have fallen prey to your men…”
He was undaunted. “That is why, mam’selle, you must be grateful for my assistance.”
“Grateful!” She pulled away, and whirled about. “May we go?”
“If you wish.” But he reached down into her trunk again and plucked from it her silver initialed brush. “Your hair resembles an ill-kept bird’s nest.”
“That is hardly my fault.”
“But if you don’t care, lady, then I must. Come to me, and I’ll make some semblance of golden curls from that thatch yet.”
“I care!” Skye cried quickly. On her bare feet she hurried forward, snatching the brush from his fingers. She tried to work through the length of her thick tendrils quickly, but she was nervous and tugged and tore far more than she cared to admit. He emitted some impatient sound and stepped forward with purpose, snatching the brush away again. “Turn!” he ordered her. Gritting her teeth, she did so.
Again, his fingers were deft. There was no tenderness to his touch, but he was apt and able, and with little pain to her, the dreadful knots caused by the wind and tempest of the storms outside and inside the captain’s cabin were quickly untangled. Her hair fell about her back and shoulders in soft, shimmering waves.
“It is an unusual color,” he commented almost idly. “It is neither gold nor red.”
She turned around, smiling succinctly. “It is the color of thatch, so you said.”
“Ah, yes, thatch,” he agreed, and smiled. Her eyes narrowed and she swung around again, waiting for the door to open. He came around and opened it for her. He offered her his arm. She chose to ignore it, staring straight ahead.
“Skye, take my arm, else resign yourself to this cabin for the length of the voyage.”
He spoke the truth, and she knew it. She took his arm and he politely opened the door.
Sunset was coming. The very sight of the spectacular colors streaking across the heavens gave a curious thrill to her heart. The world had fallen apart. She had fallen prey to the true monsters that roamed the seas. Her own captain lay dead and surely floated in some watery grave. Crew had fought and died, and infamy had ensued. She had spent the night in the company of one of the four most notorious pirates about…and still, the sunset spoke of hope.
It was glorious. It was red and gold and all the shades in between. The sun itself was a glorious orb falling slowly into the cobalt and azure of the sea. The colors seemed to stretch into eternity.
“Now I know the color,” he murmured suddenly behind her.
“What?” she said, turning to him.
His eyes, smoke now, fell upon hers. “Your hair. It is the color of this sunset.” He was silent only a moment. “Come on. I am taking the helm. You may stay at my side for a while.”
