“Your bath awaits you,” he said, his words falling like a touch of mist against her lips. Then he was touching her completely, sweeping her up into his arms.
And he deposited her firmly within the tub.
Instinctively she drew her knees as close to her chest as she could. He rescued her hair, winding it into a knot. The water was steaming hot and delicious. She shivered uncontrollably in spite of it.
“Let’s see…it’s quite all right ifyousmell like a French whorehouse,” he muttered. He was behind her. She tried to twist and rise and elude him, but his hands were already upon her. He held a cloth fragrant with the sweet-smelling soap and he moved it over her neck and shoulders and down the length of her arms. Her movement of protest worked well against her, for his hand slipped down, and cloth and soap and man came in startling contact with the full curve of her breast. She gasped, startled and desperate, for the brush of his fingers against the peak of her breast made it swell and harden, and horror filled her, just as the sensation of lightning swept with a vengeance into the whole of her being. Their eyes met. She was caught in some strange hypnotism again, unable to move. She felt the ferocity of her heartbeat and she knew that he saw the pulse that throbbed against her throat. She hardly dared to look at him, and yet she could not help herself, and when her eyes fell upon his body again, panic seized her. He had dropped the cloth. His bare hand lay against her breast. He was as still as she, his eyes burning, the whole of him gone rigid. Her lips were dry despite the steam. She fought to moisten them. To draw breath to speak.
“Please!” she managed to cry out.
She heard the grate of his teeth. He shoved away from the tub with the frightening thunder of an oath upon his lips. Skye sank further into the tub, hugging her knees once again. She heard him jerk on his breeches. He clothed himself no more thoroughly, but barefoot and bare-chested slammed his way out of his cabin.
He did not even pause to bolt her in from the outside. Nor did Skye dare to move at first. She waited, frozen there.
Seconds later, she heard the bolt slide home. Robert Arrowsmith had come, she thought. Always his master’s man, tying up whatever loose ends the Silver Hawk might leave.
She came to life then. She scrubbed herself quickly and furiously, then leaped from the tub and dried as quickly as she could manage with the one towel that had been left between them. It carried a hint of his scent, she thought. Of the more masculine soap he demanded that Robert bring him. Of something deeper. Of something that was curiously pleasant and deeply primal, the subtle scent that was uniquely his.
She threw the towel from her and hurriedly searched her trunk for a clean shift. She dressed carefully and completely in hose and shift and corset and petticoats and gown, but it wouldn’t have mattered what she had chosen to wear.
He did not come back to the cabin. Not that day. Not that night. Robert came with men to clear away the tub and breakfast tray, and he came again later to bring her supper.
She fell asleep at his desk.
Later, she awoke in his bed, and wondered how she had come there. Had she walked? She was still clad in her gown and petticoats. All that had been stripped from her body were the soft leather slippers she had worn upon her feet.
Had he come back?
He was not within the cabin. Two lanterns burned brightly, and she was not left to the darkness.
Skye lay back down, deeply disturbed. She hugged one of his pillows tightly against her, horrified to realize that she missed the man beside her, and missed the way that he had held her, making her feel secure against each and every terror of the night.
He did not come the next day. Robert Arrowsmith arrived bright and early with her breakfast. He promised that he would return to walk her about the ship. She did not ask about the Hawk, nor did she seek to “rehabilitate” his second mate.
The Hawk had said that he would kill any man who betrayed him, and Skye believed that he did not make idle threats.
By noon Robert took her out on deck. Every man jack was courteous to her, tipping his hat or cap or inclining his bare head her way. They sailed with a good wind.
The Silver Hawk was nowhere to be seen. Skye leaned against the portside hull and felt the wind whip through her hair and caress her face. Robert pointed out the distant shores of Florida, and she nodded, then gazed at him pensively.
“What has happened to Bess and Tara?” she asked him. “The young Irish maids. Do they…live?”
She thought that he quickly hid a smile, but he spoke to her gravely. “Aye, lady. They live. They will be returned with you, no doubt, to Virginia.”
“Yes, yes! Please see that it is so. My father will pay for them, I promise.”
“I will inform the Hawk about your concern,” he said.
“Where is the Hawk this morning?” she said, then despised herself for the query. What did she care? She was grateful for his absence, no matter what had caused it, or what it meant.
“He, er, is busy. He will be busy for quite some time. Probably until we reach New Providence.”
“How…nice,” Skye said flatly.
Robert looked at the sky, then cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to return to the cabin. Can I bring you anything?”
She shook her head, then she changed her mind. “Er, I’d have another bath if I might.” What a lovely opportunity. She would have the sweet-scented soap and the wonderfully steaming water without any fear of his arrival.
“Another bath?” Robert said disbelievingly. “You expose your pores, milady, to heaven knows what maladies!”
