In the Arms of a Pirate (A Sam Steele Romance Book 2) (17 page)

He hated feeling alone.

He’d never admitted it to Sam or anyone and thankfully Sam had never discovered the truth. Or if she had, she’d kept it to herself. It could explain why she’d given him the parrot when he’d taken on as first mate alongside Cale. At the time, she’d told him it was to remind him of the family that loved him.

Little did they all know he’d only been leaving one family to sail with another.

His sigh echoed off the walls of his cabin. A worry for another time. If he thought of Cale now, he’d never get to sleep. Although sleep didn’t appear imminent anyway. Even with Carracks pacing the perch in his cage, with the odd rattle of beak against bars, with not having slept all night, sleep eluded him.

Because Sarah Santiago was not what he’d expected her to be.

Grace had told him Sarah was doted on, that Roche gave her anything she wanted. Well, that certainly had proven false as she’d been denied the one thing she wanted most, freedom, the opportunity to have a life outside the garden walls.

While waiting for Roche’s arrival, Aidan had gone through the man’s home. Roche’s office was a large, rectangular space of pure opulence. Priceless statues posed on tall pedestals. His desk was an ocean of ivory marble and intricately carved wood. Art decorated the walls in heavy, gilded frames. Aidan’s knowledge of art was limited to what the teachers Sam found had taught him but he, like most, had heard of the legendary da Vinci and Michelangelo. He’d have bet the
Revenge
the drawing of a woman’s head he’d looked at was a da Vinci.

And so, after the embarrassment of riches that was Roche’s office, carried further with silks and more paintings in his bedchamber, Aidan had expected to find similar luxury in Sarah’s rooms.

Instead, he’d been surprised.

Certainly the gowns in her wardrobe were the latest fashion and her bed had also been draped in rich, dark silks. However the art gracing her papered walls wasn’t crafted by one of the greats but rather signed by her own hand. Intrigued, he’d lingered over them.

Full, bold-colored blooms such as what grew in the gardens would have been expected. Perhaps a ship on the sea as seen from a distance, a sunset of burning colors.

There had been none of those. Rather she’d drawn a woman sitting on a bench, holding a small mound of dirt with a seedling sprouting from it. The sky above was grey and dismal, the grass at her feet dying with thirst. The trees at her back nothing more than skeletal trunks and twisted, bare limbs. Her eyes looked directly at the observer and within them there was determination, a fire that her abysmal surroundings hadn’t yet extinguished. She would plant that sprout and damned if he didn’t believe she would find a way to ensure it thrived.

Where that painting had little color save the green of the sprout, the one on the other side of her canopied bed was an explosion of it. He could almost hear the rain forest within it breathing. Bubbles of dew glittered on the various sized leaves in greens ranging from the palest avocado to the richest emerald. One drop hung by a breath, its shape stretching from round to oval as it clung those last few moments before plunging into the undergrowth of ferns and hibiscus, plum-colored orchids the size of an apricot.

Toward the corner of the portrait, suspended from a gnarled branch, a veil-like cocoon lay empty while the newly hatched butterfly spread its glistening wings. Beating red and lemon yellow covered the top half of its wings while within the sand brown of its lower wings what appeared to be two blue eyes winked at him. At first glance, he only saw the one butterfly but when he stepped closer, looked further into the painting, he saw what she’d hidden. To the right, to the left, up in the opposite corner and down at the bottom, he caught more glimpses of red poking out of the green.

The best, to his estimation, was the painting hanging over the dresser. A mermaid, her jeweled-scale tail curling out of gentle waves, frolicked with dolphins. Two leapt behind her, their sleek grey bodies arching gracefully over the sea. Another two faced her, thin streams of water spurting into the air toward her. Her head was tipped back, the long, wet ropes of her dark hair trailed over her shoulders and floated on the water. She was laughing and her arms were spread wide.

Thinking back on it, every one of her paintings was about life. Despite the fact she herself hadn’t had much of one, she’d depicted life from the struggle of it, the beauty of it, to the joy of it.

And remembering that mermaid as though he was still staring at it, he saw the sensuality of it as well.

He doubted Sarah had intended it to be sensual, erotic. Yet the more he envisioned it, the more he saw only the mermaid. The arch of her neck, which begged for a man’s fingers to dance over the creamy flesh, from chin to the swell of breasts that rose out of the water. The droplets of seawater clinging to sun-kissed, bare shoulders invited a man’s lips to lick, taste. Savor.

The mermaid’s eyes had been open, but he imagined them now closing, her laugh turning to a sigh as tongue and teeth worked their way around her shoulders, to the base of her neck while clever hands slid beneath the water’s surface.

At the time he’d seen a mermaid. Remembering it now, it was Sarah he saw in the water.

And thinking of Sarah naked, smelling her on his pillow, stirred his blood and ensured sleep would not find him.

“For God’s sake man, don’t think of Sarah naked,” he scolded himself.

Squawk.
“Sarah naked. Sarah naked.”

Aidan hissed, turned his head and glared at the bird. Carracks tilted his head as if to ask what he’d done wrong.

Aidan heaved out a troubled breath. It wasn’t Carracks’ fault. It would all be so much simpler if she were like Roche, then he wouldn’t have this dilemma. He wouldn’t be teased by her scent, fresh and innocent. He wouldn’t feel the need to give her little pleasures such as manning the helm, touching sand. He wouldn’t like her.

And damned if he didn’t.

If only she were mean and ruthless like her father. But he’d read the letter she’d left for Roche on her dresser. Aidan had been surprised that she’d taken full responsibility for getting the maid drunk and within it she’d pleaded for his leniency. Aidan snorted. A few words would never be enough to keep Roche from inflicting pain. Or death.

No, she wasn’t in the least similar to her father. She’d even asked to be put in the brig, demanded that he put her to work in order to alleviate the concerns of his crew. To keep them from questioning him as captain.

She didn’t have to do any of it and yet he didn’t question her motives. Hadn’t he already been witness to her honesty? When he’d caught her escaping on the beach she’d told him she didn’t have another weapon on her. When she’d admitted to trying to escape, and again when she’d told him she’d never touched sand. If she told him she wanted to be in the brig and be put to work to help him with his crew, then he was inclined to believe her.

She was beautiful, honest, and, despite how he felt about her father, he was attracted to her. He’d loved seeing her smile on the beach and again when she’d taken the helm. He’d loved knowing it was his actions that had made her happy.

Aidan dropped an arm across his eyes. Cursed his luck.

Why did the first woman who stirred his heart have to be the daughter of his greatest enemy?

This attraction, this pull toward her could go no further. He would not spare her father. His mother would be avenged and Aidan would see justice for what Roche had stolen from him.

He was wise enough to know, however, that killing Roche would guarantee Sarah’s hatred. After all, if he couldn’t forgive the man who’d murdered his mother, how could he expect her to forgive the man who would kill her father?

*

Sarah dunked her
stained rag into the mud-brown water, swirled it around and wrung it out. The tips of her fingers looked like week-old prunes and her shoulders ached from the unaccustomed work. The knees of her trousers were soiled and she’d pushed the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows. Dishes and pots had already been washed clean. She’d helped Slim peel potatoes and onions for their supper and now backed her way out of the galley on her hands and knees as she scrubbed the floor.

Perspiration dampened the hair at the back of her neck. Hot, stale air pushed down upon her, wheezed out of her lungs. Out of breath, she sat back on her heels and rested. Looking to the galley, seeing the clean wooden planks of the decking filled Sarah with a sense of accomplishment no amount of book reading or needlework had ever done.

Still panting, with the dirty cloth dripping water between her fingers, Sarah grinned.

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen someone look happier scrubbing floors.”

Sarah jumped and the cloth hit the floor with a splat. A few times as she’d been in the galley she’d felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, had the distinct feeling she was being watched. She’d actually only seen Peter once, when she’d looked over her shoulder to find him glaring at her from the doorway to the galley, but she had little doubt he’d found an excuse to stroll by more than once.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Aidan apologized.

It wasn’t a hardship, she thought, to look up into concerned eyes set into a very handsome face.

“Only a little. Slim left some time ago and I haven’t seen much of anybody since.”

Sarah tossed the limp cloth into the dirty water and stood, wincing as her stiff muscles stretched.

There were men among his crew, which were fresh out of her imagination of what pirates should look like. Dirty clothes, yellowing teeth, and foul-smelling bodies. Aidan was none of those things. His shirts—this one the same golden brown as his skin—were never smelly and the opened ties at his throat revealed clean, bronzed skin. While his hair was usually mussed by the wind, it was never greasy and, more than once, she’d fought the urge to settle the locks back into place.

Although, if she were honest with herself, it wasn’t only his hair she desired to touch.

Since she’d kissed his stubbled cheek, she’d yearned to do so again. She’d only ever kissed her father’s smooth cheek before and the mild, unexpected abrasion of Aidan’s had been thrilling. As had having his arms around her after she’d had her nightmares. He’d been solid yet gentle, stroking her back, kissing her head.

It wasn’t her head she wanted him to kiss.

“Sarah?”

He’d moved his hand from her elbow to her shoulder and was gently shaking her. Caught dreaming, Sarah could only hope he didn’t know it was he she’d been dreaming of. The twitch of his lips could mean he thought her simple or he knew the truth. Mortification washed over Sarah. Neither shone her in a flattering light.

“I’m sorry, my thoughts were elsewhere. Was there something you wanted?”

His glance flicked to her mouth before meeting hers again. The flicker hadn’t lasted longer than the breath of a butterfly yet Sarah’s heart tripped over itself. He wouldn’t look at her mouth unless he too was thinking of a kiss, would he?

“You’ve been below for hours.”

Every romantic notion she’d foolishly allowed to bloom withered under his curt tone. “I’m nearly finished. Another few—”

“Someone else can finish.” He began to steer her toward the galley.

Sarah dug in her heels. While it pleased her to know he’d been aware how long she’d been working, leaving her task unfinished would hardly gain her, or him, any respect. She was certain he wouldn’t allow any other member of his crew the same leniency.

“Your men think little enough of me without you asking them to finish my work.”

“Fine, then you’ll finish it later. But for now you’re going to rest.”

Sarah yanked her arm free. “I am not an invalid or a child. I will finish it now.”

Aidan scowled. “When I came down your face was flushed and you were panting. You looked ready to swoon.”

Certainly not the impression a woman wanted to leave with a man, but it was too late for that. “I was hardly about to swoon. I was resting when you startled me. I’m not accustomed to physical work and, yes, I did need a moment to catch my breath. It does not mean, however, that I cannot finish what I started.”

His frown pulled at the corners of his mouth, caused a crease between his brows. Because she knew as captain he could force her to do what he wanted, Sarah forged ahead.

“I was happy.”

“Happy?”

“You said you’d never seen anyone so pleased to be scrubbing floors before.” Feeling silly, she dipped her head, turned away. “Despite being warm and dirty and out of breath, when I looked at what I’d done, when I saw all the dirt was gone, I felt pride. Satisfaction. Here was something I did that had meaning and purpose.” She took a breath for courage, twisted her hands together and looked at him again.

“I know it’s only scrubbing a floor to you, but it means more to me. Please let me finish.”

He shook his head, the furrow on his forehead deepened. “If I refuse your request, I’ll feel as though I took a favored toy from a child but if I let you go on I’ll feel no better than the man who kept me as slave.”

Sarah stepped closer, placed her hand on his arm. “I’m asking you; therefore, you’re not anything like the man who would abuse a small boy in such a manner. As for the other, I’m hardly a child, Aidan.”