Читать книгу The Pleasure of His Bed - Donna Grant - Страница 12

Damon awoke slowly, aware of a stale sweetness in his mouth and a pillow that felt extraordinarily soft and warm and…moved and had a pulse. His eyes drifted open, and he saw dusky, sweet skin. Skin that begged him to kiss it. So he did. “Sofia.”

“Welcome back, captain. You sailed away for a bit, but you’ve returned to me.”

When he tried to lift his head, a gentle hand held him firmly in place against her chest. “Easy, now. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but your stitches are holding nicely. Don’t move too fast, or you’ll fall off your chair.”

Chair…stitches…pain alongside his chin that made it all come back: he’d cut himself with his razor because of a brazen remark she’d made. Had apparently survived her surgical attempts to fix him—such as he was—and yet his backside felt stiff from sitting on a hard chair.

He scowled. “You’ve been standing here this whole time? How long was I—asleep?”

Her soft laughter rumbled under his ear, enveloping him in a cozy happiness. “What matters is that you rested long enough to let the wound clot and to allow your color to return. You were out long enough for me to realize what a handsome devil you’ll be if you grow that beard we talked about.”

“How long was I out?” he insisted.

Again she chuckled, the little minx. “Minutes, Damon. But, then, our days and weeks are made of mere minutes, aren’t they?”

He lifted his head faster than he should’ve, and her face swam before him. “Stop being so—I have a ship to run! I can’t stay in my quarters for—”

She shrugged prettily, which formed a tempting crevice between her breasts. “I haven’t felt a jolt or heard any nasty bumping noises, so your crew has been doing its job. Your quartermaster has taken charge. And isn’t that why you hired them?”

Women! They never saw the real point, did they? They—

Damon’s head turned ass-over-teakettle, and he damn near fell against her. “Fresh air. I need fresh air and cold water and—”

“Sit here by yourself while I fetch you some water, sir. Then we’ll see about a stroll along the deck railing.”

A stroll along…like some toothless old invalid being supported by a nursemaid as he clung to the railing? The image made Damon find the floor with his feet, and he immediately regretted it. He grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling as he heard Sofia’s exasperated sigh.

“Fight me, then,” she teased as she held the cup to his lips. “I’ll let you go upstairs and collapse in front of your men, if you insist. And when your head whacks the deck and your wound gushes blood, won’t you make a fine, inspiring sight?”

He gulped the water greedily, wishing she weren’t right. Why did this woman always have to be right, dammit?

“The water’s making you stronger already,” she murmured. Her voice teased at his ear…that voice that always sounded as though a laugh lurked just beneath the surface, yet a voice that wrapped around him so compassionately he didn’t know how to grasp it. Why on God’s Earth would she care about him?

“When you can keep your feet underneath you and walk as though you are escorting me,” she continued with a grin, “I hope you’ll show me how to use your spyglass, captain. Might we catch sight of my mother aboard the Lady Constance? Or perhaps spy on Daphne and Beatrix to see what sort of trouble they’re causing her?”

Sofia’s head cocked slightly, and her smile made him flutter inside. Damn, she was gorgeous. Why would he walk her up to the deck when they could sprawl on his bed and make mad, passionate love? Without those cuffs and leg irons, she could give herself as freely as she longed to…perhaps wrap those fine thighs around him, as she’d hinted when this whole mess had gotten started.

Damon blinked. Her gaze was sneaking to his crotch, as though she knew he was growing hard even before his cock thought of it.

“Is that a yes, captain?” she teased. “For a walk in the fresh air, that is?”

He gulped more water. “Probably a good idea to show myself soon, yes,” he said gruffly. “What were you thinking I wanted?”

“Me.”

Coyly she took the tin cup from his hand and returned it to the washstand. Testing him to see if he could stand up by himself. This had to be the most humiliating—most exasperating—experience he’d ever had with a woman.

Damon sucked a few deep breaths to clear the fluttering cobwebs from his head. Gazed at her to be sure his vision had cleared—at least enough that his men wouldn’t suspect he’d passed out from the sight of his own blood and the pain from that blasted needle.

“And what shall we tell them when they ask about your stitches?” she inquired sweetly. Sofia linked her arm through his and started toward the door. “We need to have our story straight so—”

“Ah, but the rule still stands about my men not speaking to you or engaging your attention,” he reminded her brusquely. “Releasing you from your irons didn’t change that.”

Her face fell, and he wanted to kick himself. After the way she’d stitched him up—would keep his secret about how bloodletting made him woozy—he was insulting her again. Had he spent his life at sea, away from potential mates, because he might mistreat them? Or because he didn’t want to lose himself, lose control, in love? He wanted to believe in that dream when he looked at Sofia Martine, but the prospect scared him speechless.

Damon sighed. Time to put such ponderings aside and take command again, wasn’t it?

He smiled at the fine, fetching woman beside him. She returned his smile, feline that she was. Sofia had taken charge but was careful not to remind him of it. Clever wench.

And once on deck, with the brisk sea air caressing his face, Damon’s strength returned. Quentin Thomas stood on the quarterdeck, at the large wooden wheel, gazing out toward the horizon…and then at the ship sailing about twenty yards to their left, and then at the Odalisque, which led their trio from the other side of Havisham’s ship.

Their sails were pregnant with a brisk wind, and the Atlantic whisked them along them like a sea-green witch with her effortless, rolling magic. Although he would prefer having the Courtesan as the lead ship, all was as it should be, with his partner out in front. He hadn’t missed a thing, nor had anything gone wrong in his brief absence. When they got closer to New Providence and went looking for Blackbeard, he would shift their position.

“Fine day for a sail, Thomas!” he exclaimed with a nod to his quartermaster. “I’ll have a look at what’s ahead of us, from the bow.”

“Aye, sir.” Quentin’s gaze lingered on the spot near his chin—the stitches now throbbed like a dog was clawing him there—but Quentin said nothing. Merely smiled and glanced briefly at Miss Martine.

Damon took the spyglass from the wheel stand to stroll along the rail as though he felt perfectly fit. Sofia had assumed the air of his deferential slave once again, walking with her hands clasped and her eyes averted. When they reached the peak of the bow, he focused on the middle ship—twisted the end of the spyglass to correct the blur. All seemed calm aboard that vessel, as well.

“Here—you look.” He handed the instrument to Sofia, who eagerly put it to her eye. “If you follow the railing of the Lady Constance to your left, you’ll spot something of interest.”

Damon watched the smooth flow of her movement…the slow parting of her lips as she gazed through the spyglass. Her ebony hair teased him in the breeze until he wanted to grab it and pull her close for a kiss.

“There she is! There’s Mama!” Sofia gazed eagerly toward the bow of the middle ship, holding her breath to concentrate. “She’s on the deck with the girls. Oh, Mama, it’s so good to see you…. I hope you’ve forgiven me for following my own selfish inclinations…stowing away and leaving you to carry out my duties.”

Damon listened, spellbound. That this vixen would be concerned about her mother’s forgiveness took him by surprise. Was it because he’d seldom given a thought to his own mother’s well-being—or to forgiveness, in general? Or because he’d so enjoyed Sofia Martine’s impulsive decision to hide in his quarters?

“Just a thought,” he murmured, “but perhaps you did your mother a favor. Lord Havisham and Lady Constance might have put her out, once she reached an age where she could no longer serve. You’ve provided her the same fresh start you’ve made yourself.”

Sofia took the spyglass from her eye. Her look was one of astute gratitude. “I hope New York will prove a hospitable place, for I suspect the girls’ two grooms already have their own staff. Mama and I may well be on our own in a strange new country and—”

“A resourceful woman like yourself will want for nothing.” Damon wasn’t sure where that sentiment had come from. To be sure she didn’t misinterpret his remark, he flashed her a foxlike grin. “And if mother is at all like daughter, she’ll find her place, as well.”

“Are you saying you have plans for us, Captain Delacroix?”

“No!” He chided himself for entertaining her fancy…leading her to believe she was anything other than a stowaway whose presence was forbidden. “America is a land of new opportunities. I’m expressing my confidence in your ability to capitalize on them.”

“Ah. Which implies you won’t sell me as a slave once we’ve detoured to that port you mentioned earlier.” A grin lit her impish face. “Thank you, Damon!”

“I—don’t go thinking…”

And wasn’t that the whole trouble with this ebony-haired temptress—that she could think? Sofia had apparently remembered all he’d ever told her, and, dammit, he hadn’t anticipated how good this made him feel. How good her body made him feel….

“And is Miss Daphne still sick to her stomach?” he asked, to change this dangerous subject.

With a knowing smile, Sofia put the spyglass to her eye again. “She looks deathly pale and unsteady but resigned…at least until she meets her intended. And there’s Trixie, admiring the sailors as they perform their tasks. From the time she was small, I saw those tendencies in her, a magnetism that will lead her into trouble.”

“The pot’s calling the kettle black, seems to me.”

Sofia laughed aloud. “Are you complaining? What would you do if I was the type to fuss and fidget and bemoan my fate?”

“I’d return you to your two charges immediately. You’d pay penance for all the trouble you’ve caused me and your poor mother!”

Once again her direct gaze disarmed him: Sofia Martine had a knack for seeing right through him, for capitalizing on every verbal and physical opportunity he offered her. When she handed him the spyglass, Damon sensed he’d brought another fortuitous, happy moment to an end. Dammit.

“Mr. Comstock will be needing me in the galley. I hope your wound stops throbbing soon, Captain Delacroix.”

Just that fast, she walked away, her gray uniform alive with the sway of her hips and the subtle flex of her waist. And just that fast, the gash began to throb like a son of a bitch.

How did she do it? How did Sofia twist everything to her own sly advantage yet leave him hungry for more of her company?

Damon exhaled harshly and put the spyglass to his eye again. They were a few days from land, so he saw nothing ahead but the open sea…yet the freedom it had always brought him, knowing he was in command of his own fate and his own fleet, felt strangely lacking now.

Nothing like a good fight with pirates to bring back the excitement! he reassured himself. Nothing like being a man among men—and being the captain of them all!

Was there? Well, was there?