A Touch of Passion (12 page)

“Stay close. The dock is teeming with people.”

She pulled herself together. Her strategy for seducing Grayson could wait until they were safely out to sea once more. The sun was remorseless, or maybe it was the tension that was causing a fine sweat to coat her skin. The ship bumped gently against the dock as Portia continued to walk toward the prow.

She moved closer to the side, ignoring Seaton’s muttered warning to stay back. She could hardly see from this high up as it was, and staying near the companionway allowed her no viewing platform at all.

She’d just drawn level with the railing when she spied a man moving quickly and furtively along the dock, heading with determination toward Grayson. She caught the glint of sun hitting steel, and with a cry she tried to alert Grayson to the impending attempt on his life.

Her scream worked, as Grayson spun around and caught the killer’s knife hand in his fist. She helplessly watched the struggle below, willing Grayson to survive. Seaton took off at a run, bellowing commands to his men, as more attackers weaved hurriedly in the crowd toward Grayson and the gangplank. To her relief she saw Grayson land one solid punch, sending his attacker over the side of the dock.

He looked up at her and yelled something, waving his hands toward the companionway. She gritted her teeth, for she knew he wanted her to go below. Instead she pulled a small pistol out of her pocket and held it up to show him she was armed.

His gesturing just got more frantic as he viewed her weapon, and she could make out the curses forming on his lips even if she couldn’t hear them.

If anyone should worry about being in danger, it was Grayson and Seaton’s men down on the dock, bravely fighting off a group of men intent on gaining entry to the
Amelea
.

She leaned over the railing, pointing her pistol, but she knew any shot would not reach the target from this height. Plus, she might inadvertently hit an innocent.

She was so intent on the commotion below that she almost did not hear the footsteps behind her. At the last moment she saw shadowy arms reaching for her, and she ducked and fled, running as fast as she could toward the gangplank. To her horror she heard more than one set of footsteps pursuing her.

Glancing down, she saw that Grayson already had too many to fight off. She couldn’t draw more of them to him. So she suddenly darted right and made for the stern, steering them away from the fight below. She had no idea what she was doing, but there was no way Grayson could handle more attackers.

Her purser lunged, grabbing at her bonnet. She jerked the tie and let it fall, and fled on.

It didn’t take long before she rounded a corner, spied the heavy anchor chain, and realized that she was cornered. She stood breathing heavily for a moment before turning to finally face her pursuers.

Thank goodness there were only two. However, they were two too many. She had only one shot in her pistol.

Portia raised her gun, pleased at how steady her hand was. “Gentlemen, we all know I have only one shot, but whom shall I kill? Is one of you ready to die just to capture me?”

The larger man smiled, showing his missing teeth. He too raised a pistol. “Who said we were capturing you? You dead still sees us get a large reward.”

Perhaps her hand twitched a little, but she again leveled the pistol. With a shrug she said, “I still have time to shoot, even if you shoot me.” She moved the muzzle toward the second man. “You, I think.”

The second man turned to his partner in crime. “I don’t want to be shot. That wasn’t in the deal. I can’t spend the money if I’m dead.”

“She’s a woman. She probably don’t even know how to shoot.”

She gave as evil a chuckle as she could muster given her situation. “I have five brothers. They made sure I knew how to shoot, and very well.” She cocked the pistol. “Are you willing to risk it?”

One of her attackers began to back away. However, the second man stood firm, keeping his gun trained on her.

“Given that you have to be dead before you reach England, and the ship will probably not dock again before Deal, this here’s my only chance at earning the reward.”

Portia said a silent prayer as she watched his finger tighten on the trigger. Her heart was in her throat and she didn’t stop to think—she just fired her pistol at the man, then dove sideways.

She heard the man fire, but the pain in her rib cage from landing on the large anchor chain lanced through her body making it impossible to ascertain if she’d been hit. She glanced through a sheen of pain-induced tears and saw her attacker crumple to the deck. She briefly closed her eyes, only to sense the second man’s approach.

He stood over her, his face hidden by the glare of the sun. “I should thank you. More money for me with Fred gone.” Portia heard him cock the gun he held in his hand. How odd, she realized, that she was not afraid. All she felt was overwhelming sadness at her rapidly approaching death. It was ironic, she thought, that she was so close to realizing her dream of being with Grayson, only to be killed because of him.

The thought flashed through her head that Grayson would never forgive himself. He’d feel responsible for her death, and that gut-wrenching realization spurred her anger. Grayson had lost too many people, and she would not be next.

On instinct, Portia screamed a curse and threw her now useless pistol at the man as hard as she could, bracing herself for the shot to come. The sound of the pistol firing seemed as loud as a cannon’s boom, but in amazement she saw her pistol hit his hand and the shot go wide.

Grayson didn’t leave his post guarding the bottom of the gangplank until the last body of the attackers splashed into the water. His sword dripped with blood and the pistols lying at his feet were now empty of shot. They had used everything they had to fight off the attackers. They had lost only one man in the skirmish, and only two had sword wounds.

Seaton and his men quickly dispensed with all the dead bodies over the side of the ship, but they had no idea if another wave of attackers would be coming anytime soon. They kept one man alive, the man Grayson had knocked out cold, for Grayson was determined to question him before they left port.

Ensuring that Rush stayed on guard on the dock with some men, Grayson and Seaton reboarded the
Amelea
.

When they reached the deck, the first thing they noticed was wet footprints drying in the sun.

His heart stopped for a moment before beginning to pound. “Where did you leave Portia?”

Seaton’s gaze swept the deck. “By the railing, over there.”

Grayson took off at a run, following the footprints rapidly drying on the deck. He’d forgotten to leave men on deck, thinking no one could get on the ship as they guarded the dock. Their enemy was clever, however. They must have swum and climbed up the seaward side.

A scream rent the afternoon’s humid air. He raced toward the stern, his stomach clenched.
No, she cannot be dead, she cannot …

He rounded the wheelhouse to see a man dead on the deck and another leaning over her prone figure, his hands around her neck, strangling the life from her. He could see the light in her eyes dimming.

Anger surged and took over. He raced over, picking up a belaying pin, and with clammy fear driving his actions struck the man on the side of the head, laying him out cold. He’d rather have killed the bastard, except they needed him alive to question.

Portia immediately fell back onto the coiled anchor chain with a grimace of pain, trying desperately to get air into her lungs. The pain etching her face told Grayson that it hurt her to breathe.

Grayson was trying to catch his breath too. The sight of her being strangled nearly to death would haunt him the rest of his days.

He crouched down next to her and tried to help her sit up, but she cried out as he steadied her. “I think I cracked a couple of ribs,” she gasped, “as I dived out of the way of the pistol shot.”

He swallowed his fear. She’d been shot at. He could have lost her. A shudder racked his body, and he realized keeping her at arm’s length did not stop him from caring about her, worrying about her, wanting her. “Did the bullet hit you? Where are you hurt?”

She shook her head as she rubbed the skin around her neck while whispering, “I managed to shoot the first man before he could shoot me, then I had to throw my pistol at this man”—Portia indicated the unconscious man at their feet—“and luckily his shot flew wide.” She tried to stand but sat back down with a plop. “I’m pleased you arrived when you did. I don’t think I could have lasted much longer,” she croaked out through her damaged throat.

God damn it to Hades, he’d failed to protect her. How had Seaton let this happen? How had
he
let this happen? Portia was supposed to be safe on the ship while they engaged the enemy on the dock below.

He scooped her into his arms, careful of her side, hoping she didn’t note how badly his hands shook. “I’m not sure we have time to call for a doctor. I want to set sail on the evening tide before reinforcements arrive to continue what these men started.”

The urge to flee was strong, given that it was clear the attackers had come for Portia. Engaging him and the men on the dock had been a ploy to distract Grayson and the others from the real target.

“I’m fine, just a bit sore.” Her hoarse voice said differently.

“Seaton, get Cook to make a hot drink for Portia.” He’d add brandy to take the edge off her pain.

He carried Portia carefully to her cabin. “I’ll help you undress and take a look to see what damage has been done.”

A flush raced over her beautiful face, but she did not argue with him—a sure sign she was not at her best.

Grayson sat her gently on the edge of the bunk bed and then poured her a large brandy. He added a generous drop of whiskey for good measure. He waited until she’d drunk half the glass before suggesting she disrobe.

He unhooked the back of her gown and gently slipped it off her shoulders to bunch at her waist. He helped her lift her arms and pulled her shift over her head. She’d not been wearing a corset due to the heat. A pity, as it might have given her ribs more protection.

His mouth ran dry as he glimpsed her pert, full breasts, but he tried not to look. Grayson turned her gently away from him so he could assess the damage to her side and ribs, and his breath caught. He could clearly see red welts across her pale skin where she’d hit the large anchor chain. Her skin had also started to bruise.

“I need to ascertain if any of your ribs are broken. I’ll try to be gentle, but it will hurt. Perhaps you should drink the rest of the brandy?”

She complied obediently. He wished for one moment she was always this easy to manage.

Trying to separate his lustful thoughts from the need to see to her injuries, Grayson ran his hands over her rib cage. He’d done this several times for his male friends after too vigorous boxing matches, but her rib cage could fit in his hand. She was so petite and delicate, like a fine teacup. How did all of her ribs not break?

“Drink more of the alcohol, sweetheart.” He was going to have to probe each fine bone, and it would hurt.

He waited until Portia drank the rest of the brandy-whiskey mixture. When she nodded she was ready, he began feeling along the bones. She was so brave, stoically holding in her cries. Her teeth biting her bottom lip and the tears welling in her eyes were the only signs of her pain.

It was over quickly, thank goodness, and when he saw her tears, all he wanted to do was press tender kisses to the bruises marring such perfect skin. “All done. You did very well.”

Portia simply crumpled to the bed and gulped in air. She didn’t even try to cover herself. “Sorry to be such a crybaby. I’m not very good with pain.”

The curve of her full breast was clearly visible, and he tried to keep from licking his lips. Instead, he rose to find some bandages. “The good news is I don’t think any of the ribs are broken, merely badly bruised. The bad news is you are going to be very sore for a few days. I think we should bandage you up merely to keep your side protected from movement and bumps.”

He poured her more brandy and handed her the glass. She rolled onto her back, mindless of the fact she was naked to the waist. His body flared with heat, and he couldn’t help staring. His body hardened further as her nipples peaked. She simply gave a small smile, knowing the exact effect her body was having on him.

She lay across the bunk, her vibrant hair spread across the pillow as a frame around her head, neck, and shoulders, making her skin appear alabaster in the sunlight. She looked like a decadent treat, something to be savored and worshiped. The alcohol put a gorgeous flush in her cheeks and made her smiling eyes more wanton than usual.

He was completely falling under her spell. The only thing preventing him from throwing himself on her and ravishing her until they reached England was the fact she was bruised and battered.

“I’m not as fragile as I look.” The words slurred from her lips. “I’m actually feeling rather good.”

“That’s the brandy and whiskey talking. Tomorrow you’ll barely be able to move.”

She giggled.

Trying to keep his body in check, he helped her into a sitting position. He became totally focused on her injuries as he wound strips of linen tightly around her chest to hold her ribs immobile. Her giggles soon faded as the cloth tightened. Once again she did not make a sound.

When he’d finished, he finally lifted his head to look at her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Grayson grabbed for the whiskey bottle by the bed and took a long swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before turning to face her. At least the linens bound her breasts as well as her ribs. But she still looked like temptation incarnate.

“You were very brave.”

She smiled and reached for her brandy glass. “Don’t I deserve a reward?” He obliged and tipped more of the pain-dulling alcohol into her glass.

“That wasn’t the reward I was thinking of,” she said, her words still slightly slurred. With that she reached forward and cupped his chin in her little hand. He knew what she would do, but he was powerless to stop her.