Capture The Wind (39 page)

“Where’s the lantern?” he asked, and she pointed toward it.

When it was lit, he came back to sit down beside her on the bunk. Lifting her hands, he studied them for a moment, gently caressing her palm, then her fingers.

“Such small hands,” he murmured, “to wield a sword.” He looked up at her. “When I was first taken by pirates, I was only six. By the time I actually fought in my first battle, I was a veteran of three score or more. Being the youngest aboard ship, I was a powder monkey. My job was to deliver fresh gunpowder to the gundeck. At times, the decks were so slippery with blood and pieces of my mates, that I could scarcely make my way across them. I was so scared at first. The noise, and the screams and moans of the dying
 . . .
” His gaze grew distant, and she had the eerie impression that he was seeing that small boy instead of her. Then he seemed to recover, raking a hand through his hair and smiling slightly. “I was a quick learner, they told me. Quicker than any boy they’d ever had sail the Spanish Main with them before. Of course, that was probably because I lived longer than any boy who had sailed with them before, too.”

After a moment, she managed to ask, “How
 . . .
how did you come to be with pirates?”

He gave her a faintly cynical smile. “That is an excellent question. I still ask it myself.”

When it seemed as if he didn’t intend to elaborate, she said, “I suppose it happened to you in almost the same manner as it happened to me.”

“God, no.”

The harshness of his voice took her aback, and she sat in shocked silence. As if he understood how he’d shocked her, he tried a smile that was more of a grimace.

“It’s really not a pleasant tale, angel. You’re better off not knowing it, believe me.”

She reached out to touch him, her hands curling around his in a comforting grip. “If ever you want to talk about it, I will be glad to listen.”

Lifting their entwined hands to his mouth, he kissed the tips of her fingers, smiling slightly. “I intended to comfort you. Why is it that you’re trying to comfort me?”

“I think,” she said softly, “we are comforting each other.”

“Ah. So that’s it. I should have known you’d turn this around on me.”

Despite the lightness of his tone, she heard a thread of his usual cynicism. This time, instead of distressing her, she recognized and accepted the reason for it. It was the only method he had of dealing with his pain. She had the release of tears, but Kit could never allow others to get even a glimpse of his anguish.

“Of course,” she said with a shaky little laugh. “I couldn’t let you win, could I?”

“No, angel. Not you.” He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “You never surrender easily.”

Closing her eyes when he pulled her against him, Angela felt her heart constrict as he bent his head to kiss her. The first, brief contact of their lips sent a shiver through her, and he could feel her trembling.

“Cold, sweeting?” he murmured against her mouth, his breath warm and enticing. She managed to shake her head, and heard his soft laughter. “I thought not
 . . .
no, don’t pull away. I think I’ve found another method of sharing comfort
 . . .
”

Kissing her mouth, her eyelids, then her cheeks, his mouth moved lower, tasting and teasing until she was clinging to him with all her senses swimming. As she pressed close to him from chest to waist, Angela’s pulses began to throb with wild expectation. It wasn’t just what he was doing—though his hands were certainly coaxing sweet responses from her body—it was the fact that he had shared more with her than ever before. There was an intimacy between them now that had nothing to do with sex.

For the first time, Kit Saber had given her a glimpse into his deepest soul, and she felt as if they were one indivisible being. This was what she had thought she’d shared with Philippe, this knowledge of another’s heart. But now, she knew differently. Now, she knew the heart of a man worthy of her love.

For Angela, it made all the difference in the world.

That night, while new moonlight streamed through the portholes and lantern light swayed with the rocking of the ship, she gave her heart and soul to a pirate captain. There were no reservations in her mind, no lingering doubts. The soft whispers and hushed murmurs they made filled the cabin and her heart.

Just after midnight Kit suffered a sudden and acute attack of bronchitis. He woke her, coughing and hacking, sounding as if he were dying. Angela ran for Turk, pounding on his cabin door. He opened it at once, looking as if he had not slept.

“It’s
 . . .
Kit,” she gasped out. “Coughing so dreadfully
 . . .
”

“I shall come at once.” Turk stepped back into his cabin and grabbed a small leather bag, then followed her.

Kit had staggered from Angela’s cabin into the companionway, and was bent over, still coughing. Turk lifted him as if he were a small child, carried him to his own cabin, and placed him gently in his bunk.

Frantic with concern, Angela hovered about like—in Turk’s words—a hen with its only egg. Turk ordered her from the cabin, relenting only when she pleaded to stay.

“Very well, but you must cooperate fully with my regimen of medication,” he said, and she agreed. Soon, the cabin smelled strongly of pine, eucalyptus, and sandalwood. Huge vats of steaming water created moisture on the walls, dispersing aromatic clouds of herbs. Kit huddled over bowls of the water with a towel over his head, his body jerking in racking coughs.

During one of his worst attacks, Turk moved behind him and applied pressure to points on Kit’s throat, neck, and upper back. It seemed to help lessen the fits of coughing.

“What caused this?” Angela whispered as she dipped another towel into the steaming water.

“All that smoke from the battle, I imagine.” Turk did not pause in his ministrations, and Kit seemed beyond response. “It inflames his bronchial tubes. This is not one of his more serious attacks. I would say he should be doing excellently by morning.”

Angela gazed doubtfully at Kit. His complexion alternated between red from the steam, and a gray pallor that was distinctly unhealthy. Turk had ordered a drink made of willow bark to be given him, and Kit had drunk it without a murmur, a grave indication that he was truly ill.

To her amazement, by morning, as Turk had predicted, Kit was much better. Still weak, however, he remained in his cabin most of the day. Angela sat beside him reading, and when he woke from a frequent nap, she brought him cool water or more medication.

“You don’t need to sit with me,” he said crossly in late afternoon. “I’m not a child.”

She smiled. “No, but you are certainly as cranky as an infant. Here. Drink this willow bark tea Turk sent down for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“But he said—”

Sitting up with a snarl, Kit said coldly, “I don’t give a damn what he said. Take it away.”

She jerked to her feet, her chin lifting angrily. “Very well. If you insist upon behaving like a naughty child, then you deserve to be ill. And you can shout for someone else to bring you more water because I shan’t be here.”

With that, she left his cabin, slamming the door behind her as hard as she could. Being crafted from heavy oak, it didn’t make as loud a noise as she’d hoped, but she was certain it conveyed her irritation with him.

“He’s cross as an entire nest of wasps,” she told Dylan a few minutes later, leaning on the gunwale to watch the sunset.

Dylan turned, a faint smile on his face. “What else is new? At least you still have your head.”

“So to speak.” She smiled wryly. “I think I shall visit Emily. She is much more pleasant company. Has she recovered from our ordeal?”

“Much quicker than I thought. She’s in the galley telling Beans how to steam vegetables. Maybe you ought to rescue both of them. Beans ain’t the most patient of cooks, and Miss Emily is not the most rational of females. They might both end up throwing around pots and pans before it’s over.”

Laughing, Angela went to find Emily. The kitchen was small and greasy. Clutter lined walls and shelves; strings of garlic and herbs hung from hooks in the ceiling and on the walls, and tin jars of spices added a pungent scent to the air.

Beans and Emily were toe to toe, both glaring at one another when Angela arrived. “Get her outta here,” Beans snarled, gesturing at Emily with a dripping wooden spoon. “I ain’t steamin’ no damn vegetables.”

A huge cauldron simmered on the stove, and several smaller pots rattled cheerfully as steam boiled into the air in aromatic clouds. A vat of beef soaking in brine sat in one corner.

“It’s better for you,” Emily insisted. She gestured at the soaking meat. “Who wants to eat that?”

“Come along, Emily.” Angela took her arm and escorted her, protesting, to the galley door. She paused and looked back at Beans in his filthy apron. A triumphant smile curled his mouth. Angela couldn’t resist saying, “We shall send Turk to advise you on food preparation instead.”

A dismayed howl followed them down the companionway as she and Emily made their escape. “There,” Angela said, “That was all you needed to say to him. I imagine there will be some steamed vegetables at our next meal.”

“I hope so. I was beginning to enjoy staying on the island. The food was fresh and delicious.” She paused, then asked, “How is Captain Saber?”

“Better, but as surly as a wet cat. Turk has some remarkable cures at his disposal. Too bad he hasn’t found one for an ill temper.”

Emily laughed. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t want Saber to change a bit.”

“Perhaps not. But it would be nice if I knew what he was thinking at times.” Angela hesitated, then said, “Emily, do you suppose he’s being truthful about his reasons for wanting me to go back to England?”

Emily’s brown eyes glanced away from her, then back. “I don’t know,” she said frankly. “It seems logical. After all, it hasn’t exactly been the safest voyage in history. I do think, however, that he’d rather you stay with him.”

Leaning against the smooth, polished rail of the foredeck, Angela said, “Well, I hardly think he’ll send me away now.” She flushed when Emily gave her a quizzical look. “We’ve grown quite close, you know.”

“Yes.” Emily looked away. “So I understand.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the familiar ship noises of wind in the sails and creaking lines. Angela looked up at the swelling canvas where it strained against lines and masts. The wind was a steady force, pushing them ever onward. When it died, the
Sea Tiger
lay motionless in the water, at the mercy of the next good wind. It could buffet them in a storm, or die off completely. There were moments she compared Kit to the wind, and despaired of ever capturing his love. But surely he would never send her away now, not after the night they had spent together. No, he must have changed his mind.

“It’s much better this way.”
Kit dug his fingers into the smooth wood of the gunwale, not looking down at Angela. He didn’t want to see the shadows in her eyes, or the slight quivering of her lower lip that she was trying so hard to steady.

“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I agree.”

“You’ll be home soon, and this will all be behind you.”

For a moment, nothing else was said. Pipe smoke drifted on the wind, pungent and fragrant, mixing with the familiar scents of wet rope and wood. Perched atop a spar, Rollo croaked a ditty that usually angered Angela, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention this time.