The Bastard (14 page)

“Do you think I would choose a man older than my father?” Jeannette replied, burying her face in the blanket and trying to ignore the subtle scent that clung to it—Treynor’s scent—as she warmed her nose.

“The Baron St. Ives is rich and powerful. He has an impressive pedigree. Isn’t that what a woman wants?”

Now that the rain had stopped, moonlight filtered through the circle of a single porthole. Jeannette squinted at the lieutenant even though she could see little more than the hazy silhouette of his body and the quilt he’d kicked to the bottom of the hammock.

“Oui,”
she responded on a sigh. “We are all shallow, uncaring creatures.”

When Treynor spoke again, it was on an entirely different subject. “Aren’t you going to thank me for cutting those bands away? Or have you too much pride to take it as the kindness it was meant to be?”

Jeannette pressed her forearms to her breasts. They still ached. Her body could not have withstood the pressure of the bindings much longer. “How did you know?”

He chuckled. “I am intimately familiar with certain parts of a woman’s anatomy—and yours in particular, remember?”

She cursed herself for being stupid enough to ask. “You could not have been thinking honorable thoughts to have realized it.”

“I never said I was thinking honorable thoughts.”

“You are no gentleman,
monsieur
.”

“I won't argue with you there. If it makes you feel any better, you are not the only one who thinks so.”

Jeannette didn’t know how long it was before Treynor’s breathing evened out, but she guessed, with his back in the condition it was, he could not be sleeping soundly. The deep cuts crisscrossing his flesh still oozed blood. She winced to imagine how it must have felt to be Cunnington’s pawn and had to admit that Treynor was right to hate her. But she had too much at stake to allow him to take her to the captain. She had to escape, and long before morning.

Using her feet as leverage, she yanked against her bonds, hoping they’d give way, but the fabric cut into her wrists without loosening. She bit her lip against the pain and started to work the knots, quickly growing too nervous to take the time to do it right. In just a few hours, the entire ship would know about her, and she’d have no chance of reaching London.

Not that she had much of a chance now. Gasping from her efforts, she leaned her forehead on the wood, trying to think of another way. Perhaps she could find something on the desk to help her. She’d already tried searching for the lieutenant’s dirk and hadn’t been able to find it.

The trunk was heavy, but she managed to drag it by inches. The scraping sound seemed to reverberate through the cabin, but there was nothing she could do about it. The creaking of the ship’s timbers was nearly loud enough to mask it. It certainly seemed as if he was oblivious—until he grunted. Then she froze.

The blanket he had given her was somewhere on the floor behind her. She’d been unable to hang on to it and drag the trunk at the same time. She had only the darkness to cloak her—and felt the scantiness of that covering all too poignantly.

Had she awakened him? She thought so. But then his breathing grew steady again. He seemed to be dreaming, or reacting to the wounds on his back. She had no idea what the lieutenant would do if he caught her, but she’d seen enough to know he had a temper.

Sweat rolled down Jeannette’s back as she pressed on and, eventually, she reached her goal. The light filtering in from beneath the door and through that one porthole coaxed her to wrench free, find something to wear, and slip out into the hallway. Stowaways were common enough in the navy. Perhaps she could hide until they reached London. It was a chance, however small. If she did nothing, she’d be returned to St. Ives at dawn.

Rising to her knees, she pulled as far from the trunk as her bonds would allow so she could examine what Treynor had on his desk. His dirk had to be somewhere. He’d used it to remove the bindings. But precisely where had he put it?

Papers and shadowy objects covered that horizontal space. Jeannette squinted, wished for more light, and tried to get closer. Finally, she rolled onto her back and used her feet to scoop all she could reach onto the floor, turning her face away when an avalanche of paper and other articles came showering down on top of her.

The noise seemed earthshattering, but Treynor didn't stir, so Jeannette struggled into a crouched position and studied the objects on the floor. A quill pen—thank God she hadn’t knocked herself senseless with its heavy holder or splattered herself with ink—a few coins, maps, various papers, letters...and a letter opener!

Dragging the trunk a few inches closer, Jeannette retrieved the sharp instrument with her teeth, put it into her right hand and stabbed at the fabric, ignoring the pain such an unnatural position caused her wrists.

After what seemed like forever, she cut far enough into the fabric that she could tear the rest away, and finally,
finally
, she was free.

Now to get out of the room before Treynor awoke. She started working the latch on the trunk so she could steal a shirt to go with Dade’s breeches when footsteps thundered down the hall outside and a heavy fist, judging from the racket it made, thudded on the cabin door.

“Lieutenant!”

Jeannette stifled a squeal and ducked beneath the desk.

Treynor shot up and lunged toward the sound. “What is it?” he asked, his voice muddled by sleep as he unlocked the door and peered out through a narrow crack.

“The captain wants you in his cabin right away, sir.”

With a groan, Treynor scrubbed the sleep from his face. “What’s going on?”

Jeannette’s pulse raced as they talked. What now? As soon as his visitor left, he’d turn and see the trunk out of its place and realize she was free.

She’d never escape without a weapon. Her eyes and hands sought Treynor’s jacket, slung over the chair in front of her. She felt its heavy wool, the thick, gold braid, the round brass buttons, and the leather strap beneath it before her fingers located his pistol.

The heaviness of the gun felt foreign in her hands—cold, alien, frightening—but she had to do something.

Careful to stay out of the line of sight of the person who’d come to fetch him, she crept out from beneath the desk and slid around behind Treynor. Gripping the pistol by its iron muzzle, she rose silently, lifting it above her head with both hands. Timing would be everything....

The stranger finished telling Treynor he had no idea why the captain wanted to see him. Then Treynor shut the door and she brought the gun down with all her strength, aiming for his crown.

Jeannette expected the lieutenant to crumble at her feet. She didn't anticipate the lightning quick move that caused the blow to glance off his shoulder.

“What the devil!” He spun and slammed her back against the desk, seeking control of the weapon.

Jeannette clung to the muzzle with all the tenacity she could muster. If Treynor gained possession of the gun, she’d have nothing to stop him from doing whatever he pleased.

The lieutenant was bigger and stronger by far, but she’d taken him by surprise. For a moment, Jeannette thought that small advantage might be enough to preserve her weapon, but then he twisted, gained a better grip, and together they crashed to the floor.

Fortunately the lieutenant took the brunt of the fall. Jeannette knew by the curse he muttered how badly it had cost him and felt a fleeting concern for the wounds on his back. Surely they’d start bleeding again. But she couldn’t give up the fight. If he’d been angry before, he’d show her no mercy now.

“What are you trying to do? Kill me?” He rolled on top of her and pinned her hands above her head.

Jeannette still grasped the pistol, but the pistol did her little good while he held her wrists in the vise of his hands.

He was stretched out on top of her, so damnably heavy she could scarcely move. Laboring to suck some air into her lungs, she gasped, “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have shot you dead.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Your husband should be glad to be rid of you. You’re too wild to make anyone a good wife.”

“I won’t go back!” Infinitely aware of her nakedness, Jeannette began to squirm again. She managed to raise a knee halfway to the lieutenant’s groin, but he shifted before she could reach her intended target.

“Oh, no you don’t! Not again!” He squeezed her sore wrists until tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Then he shook her hands, banging the gun on the floor like a hammer, but she gritted her teeth and held fast.

“Let go, you little hellion.” Finally, he wrenched the gun from her grasp and slid it away from her. “What in the name of God is wrong with you?” he demanded, straddling her middle and keeping her arms pinned above her head.

Jeannette blinked several times, trying to still the quiver of her chin. He was too heavy, her hands hurt, and now she had nothing to stop him from returning her to St. Ives, who would no doubt exact a costly revenge for her escape.

“Don’t start crying, dammit. I’m not so easily swayed.”

The mere mention of tears weakened the tenuous grasp Jeannette had on her emotions. The more she tried to hold back, the greater her need to cry. Fat teardrops blurred her vision and dampened her temples as they rolled back into her hair.

“Get off me. There is nothing I can do to you now.”

“No? Well, there is still plenty I would like to do to you. A good spanking would not be undeserved, I think. You might tweak your husband’s nose and get away with it, but your little escapades have cost me a pound of flesh in the most literal sense. Tell me, how merciful should I be?”

“I expect no mercy from a low-born sailor, and neither will I ask for it.”

His grip tightened. “Feeling superior, are we?”

Jeannette detected a harder edge to his voice than she’d heard him use before and couldn’t help needling him further. She was so angry and miserable and desperate. “You are a pig.”

“If I am to be classed with swine, perhaps I shall act the part. We sailors are a rough lot, forever hungering for a woman after going weeks, even months, without the comforts of the flesh. And I am no different.”

The sparkle in his eye made Jeannette wonder what she had provoked in him.

“Except that I am more familiar with your kind than you might think,” he continued, “titled ladies who are all show and manners on the surface while holding their virginity like a prize to be awarded to the highest bidder.”

Jeannette stiffened at his cutting words. “How dare you—”

“No, how foolish of you, my pretty friend, to risk yourself by coming among such men. Or were you hoping for something a little more stirring than polite?” He bent his head and claimed her lips in a harsh, demanding kiss.

She squirmed and tried to twist away, but he held her fast, forcing her to capitulate, dominating her will as effectively as her body.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured against her mouth. “You didn’t seem to mind at the Stag.”

Jeannette felt the warmth of his breath on her face and longed to inhale it in spite of his hateful words. She didn’t know when she quit fighting him, or when Treynor let go of her wrists, but every sense brimmed with his sinewy flesh and the musky smell of his body.

Letting her arms circle his neck, she returned his kiss with all the feverish intensity that swelled within her. She wanted something from him she couldn’t quite understand, and needed to vent her own anger and passion as freely as he had.

His hand grasped her breast almost painfully, that single action more erotic than anything Jeannette had ever imagined as his tongue invaded her mouth.

Frustrated by something she could not name, Jeannette tried to push him away, but he was too strong and too angry. Her efforts had no effect—until she sank her teeth deep in his lip. Then Treynor recoiled, breathing hard.