Capture The Wind (22 page)

And dear God, why must she find herself stirring to just the touch of his hand upon her face? The brush of his fingers against her cheek sparked a hundred different reactions, the least among them being a vague sense of disquiet.

“I’d swear,” Kit murmured against her mouth, “that I still smell rum and soot in your hair.”

“Probably,” she managed to reply with what she hoped sounded like poise. “The closest I’ve been to water since the fire was when you held me over the rail.”

“A memory I still cherish. I’ve entertained fond thoughts of how large a splash you would have made into the sea.”

Angela opened her eyes and tried to match his insouciance. “I have an inescapable feeling that I would have been much better off if you had drowned me.”

“Ah, sweetheart, you’ve no idea how much better off you would have been.”

Her stomach dropped, and icy fingers gripped her heart when he tightened his hold for an instant. Then he was pushing her backward until she came up short against the bunk. It caught her behind the knees, unbalancing her. Kit took immediate advantage of the situation, and in an instant, she was sprawled across the bunk beneath his heavy weight.

Catching both her wrists in one hand, he drew her arms up and over her head, pressing them into the mattress, using his weight to hold her. His expression was intent and, to her consternation, as exciting as it was frightening. With his mouth curled into a wicked half-smile and his blue eyes narrowed, he made her think of things she probably shouldn’t,

Such as the afternoon of her bath, and how he’d held her then. It always left a queer churning in the pit of her stomach when she thought of that day, and the things he’d done and the way she’d reacted—like now, when he was sliding his hand over her torso and creating quivering sensations that she knew better than to surrender to.

“Kit
 . . .
no,” she said in a husky whisper that sounded weak even to her own ears. She wasn’t a bit surprised when he ignored her, but continued his explorations, fingers touching and teasing skin that was highly sensitized. His hand tightened on her ribcage then slid upward, opening to cup the full swell of her breast. When his thumb closed on his finger, teasing her nipple, Angela cried out softly.

Kit took immediate advantage of the opportunity to kiss her again, tongue sliding between her lips in a shockingly intimate manner. She wanted to twist away from him, but he held her still, rotating his thumb in a slow, leisurely motion that made her shudder.

Desperately clinging to the shreds of her resistance, Angela gasped out, “Why are you doing this?”

The words gave him pause, and he lifted his head to stare down at her with a dark blue gaze that held no mercy or emotion. She swallowed a half-sob, and his mouth twisted.

“Damned if I know.” He sat up, raking a hand through his hair as he released her wrists. For a long moment he looked at her, and she had the thought he was seeing someone else instead of her.

Rubbing at her wrists—she would no doubt have bruises there on the morrow—she watched him carefully, uncertain as to what he would do next. But Kit only rose in a fluid motion and took two steps away from the bunk. Volatile emotions chased across his face. After a moment, he gave her cheek a gentle pat then pivoted on his heel and stalked to the door. It swung open noiselessly, and he stepped out.

When the door had shut behind him, she collapsed into a shivering mass of relief. It did not matter that he had locked her in, or that Emily was being impounded elsewhere. They were alive and on their way to America. That should be all that mattered.

Yet during the next week, Angela found it increasingly difficult to remember her resolve. Boredom set in. Only Dylan visited her in the tiny cabin where she was kept—imprisoned was a more suitable term, she thought—and the days stretched long and endless. Monotony was her worst enemy now, and she surprised herself at times by thinking longingly of the days when Saber had tormented her with visits and verbal spats.

Dylan refused to argue with her, his face set and remote when she attempted to draw him out. She grew listless and spent long hours lying motionless on the small, hard bunk, sleeping or staring up at the ceiling. Dylan brought her some books. She had no desire to read them or even look through them. Then he brought in Rollo for diversion, but that was hardly successful.

The bird seemed to delight in reciting naughty verses that horrified her almost as much as they intrigued her. When he began quoting diatribes against women, Dylan took him out again and the experiment was ended. She was left alone to while away the long hours, contemplating the pattern of the sun on walls still charred in places.

Turk came one day, his massive frame filling up the tiny room. Even his deep voice seemed too large for the confined space.

“You have not been eating,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your health will degenerate swiftly if you do not ingest proper nourishment.”

Angela opened her eyes and sighed. “I’m not hungry. I don’t like oatmeal, and I hate salt pork.”

“Dare I suggest that you venture eating healthy victuals for a change? I realize it’s rather audacious of me to propose such a course, but it might be beneficial to you, regardless of our illustrious captain’s sentiments.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “Weeds and seeds? It does not sound very appetizing.”

“Neither does the lactating fluid of a large mammal with two stomachs, but you drink cow’s milk, I’m certain. And it is the English custom to consume the unborn embryo of a fowl for breakfast every morning, I understand, along with an odoriferous little aquatic creature that has been soaked in brine.”

She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, amused in spite of herself. “Eggs and kippers, I presume?”

Turk smiled. “Among other unhealthy items. Would you care for some rice?”

“If you insist.”

When he returned with a tray, Angela sat up and gazed at the steaming food. Rice and some sort of odd-looking beans that Turk said were sprouts had been piled upon her plate, along with dried, crackling shreds of something that smelled like the sea.

“Dulse,” Turk said when she asked what it was. “Dried seaweed. It is a staple in the Maritimes, and tastes better than it smells. Be venturesome. Take a bite.”

Angela did and made a face. “It tastes like seawater, only chewier.”

“Doesn’t it? One grows accustomed to it after awhile, though I admit it is rather a challenge at first. How are the rice and bean sprouts?”

“Tasty,” she said after trying them.

Turk smiled. “Excellent. If you eat healthy food, you will grow healthy. I am always amazed at the improvement in those who have tried this particular diet.”

She thought about Saber and wondered if he ate the recommended foods.

As if reading her mind, Turk said, “I have exhorted Kit to endeavor to eat more healthily, but he is obdurate in his refusal. It would greatly benefit his bronchial inflammation, if he would only listen to me.”

Angela took a sip of hot tea from a delicate china cup. “Is he ill?” she asked.

“He has been afflicted with bronchial congestion for a week, hence his absence. It was the smoke that aggravated his condition, though he has a proclivity for the illness.”

“Smoke—from the explosion?”

Turk’s dark eyes met hers. “As I said, he is inclined to the disease at even the best of times.”

“But smoke from the fire I caused aggravated it.” Angela sighed. “I never thought of that. I should be sorry, I suppose.”

“Not necessarily. He spent several hours in a smoky tavern that would produce the same result. It has been my observation that Captain Saber has a propensity for self-indulgence, as well as an inclination toward self-abuse. Though it saddens me to watch, I refuse to interfere without invitation.”

“A wise decision,” Angela said, thinking of her last altercation with Kit.

When she had finished her meal and Turk gathered the tray, she said almost wistfully, “Dylan said the weather was warmer now. Does that mean we are near the American colonies?”

“No, it means we’ve picked up the westerlies and a good warm tradewind. We will reach the Caribbean Sea soon, where we usually pause to careen the ship and restock our supplies. But I suppose this time we’ll wait to stop until our return from New Orleans.”

“Car-what?”

“Careen. Scrape the accumulated crustaceans from the keel to enable the ship to progress more efficiently. It is a simple process, but rather time-consuming. And it leaves us in jeopardy while the vessel is lying ashore much like a beached turtle. We had intended to perform a minor version of it in the Azores, but events dictated otherwise.”

Angela flushed slightly. She was well aware what “events” he referred to. The repercussions still lingered painfully in her memory.

Turk hesitated at the door, then said in his rich voice, “I recommend that you endeavor not to vex Captain Saber when you meet again. It is imperative that you remain in his good graces until we reach New Orleans.”

“Imperative? Why?”

“Let me just convey the opinion that it would be beneficial in the extreme to have him jocular instead of inflamed. He is much more amenable then.”

Angela sighed. “I can’t seem to help it. Every time I say something, it’s wrong.”

“Then accept the advice of an observer and remain silent. Not only will it astound him, it will charm him.”

“I have no desire to charm him,” Angela said tartly, and Turk gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

“As you will. I, however, would much prefer a pleasant conversation than an altercation.”

After he’d gone, Angela considered what he’d said. It made sense, of course. It should. Since being taken aboard the
Sea Tiger,
every exchange with Kit Saber had been angry. Or completely out of her control. She thought of how he’d held her against him, and the way it had made her feel.

During the past week, she’d vividly recalled his kisses. Driven by emotions she didn’t understand, she’d tried her best to put them from her mind. It was humiliating to recall how he’d held her, how he’d touched her and made her cry out. A thick lump settled in her throat. She’d been unfaithful to Philippe. And oddly enough, it had not felt at all like it at the time. There had been no thought of her betrothed, only of the man who held her in his arms and did those wickedly shameful and delightful things to her.

She buried her face in her palms. She was completely degenerate. It was bad enough that she’d allowed it, but to dwell on it, to wake up from dreams of Kit with the strange restless pulsing still making her ache—it was unbearable. If only they were in New Orleans. If only Philippe were with her. Then none of this would have happened. Somehow, he would have stopped it.

She thought of her parents and their comfortable home in the fashionable part of Mayfair. She thought of sun-lit mornings at the table, listening to her mother’s prattle about calling cards and visits and soirees, and realized that she missed them all. Even her father’s gruff manner had covered a kind, genuinely loving heart, and she knew that if they had discovered her fate, they would be frantic. She’d been so thoughtless. It had seemed like the only solution at the time, but it must have grieved them deeply. They would not understand her brief note of explanation, nor would they understand her desire to be independent of their decision. Marriage to the baron still seemed abhorrent, but she should have remained in London and been strong. Eventually, her father would have abandoned his wedding plans for her, and as she had already passed the age of majority, he would have been forced to heed her decision.

Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she closed them to hold back the tears. Useless, so useless, and now her life was totally out of her control
 . . .

It was only when a light tapping sounded on the door that she realized she’d fallen asleep. Rising to her elbows, she sleepily called out, “Yes?”

Dylan swung open the door and stepped inside. He cast a long shadow on the floor, and Angela realized it must be late afternoon. Assuming he was bringing her something to eat, she began her usual refusal, but he cut her off.

“That ain’t why I’m here. I brought you something.” He held out a silk-wrapped bundle. “Found it with your trunk in the hold and thought it might make you feel better.”

Puzzled, Angela sat up and pushed a tangle of hair from her eyes. He placed the silk square in her lap and stood back. She looked down at it for a long moment, her sleep-fogged mind struggling to waken.

“Open it,” Dylan said, his voice impatient. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back. Or toss it over the side. Probably the last. If Saber sees it, I don’t know what he’d say to me.

Intrigued now, Angela unwrapped the silk—she recognized the scarf her mother had given her for her last birthday—and gave a soft cry.