The Bastard (42 page)

Blinking in surprise, Treynor moved closer. Favre still wore his pants. But his belt was unbuckled, his shirt and shoes tossed to the side as though removed in haste.

“Are you hurt?” he asked again, turning to take Jeannette into his arms.

She shook her head and collapsed against him, sobbing quietly into his shoulder.

The smell of bile permeated the room, indicating she’d been sick, but he couldn’t help marveling at her courage. Pulling back, he tilted her chin up long enough to catch and hold her gaze. He had never known a woman of such spirit.

“You did only what you had to do. It was you or him,” he told her sternly. “Had you not killed him, he might have rallied his crew and finished us.”

“It was terrible,” she whispered. “I was so afraid. And then, after I was sure he was—” she swallowed “—dead...that I had actually...k-killed him, I dared not come out for fear of what his men might do.”

He took her by the shoulders as gently as he could. “You are safe, little Jeannette. The French are even now swimming toward their own coast. Our worst enemy has become the sea.”

“I felt the ship heave to. I wondered why.” Her voice trembled.

“We nearly wrecked upon the rocks. But they are no danger to us now. As soon as we ride out this storm, we will sail to England. As damaged as the ship is, it may take us several days, but we will make it. Both of us.”

Jeannette nodded and turned her face back into his shoulder. “How is your arm?” she asked as he stroked her hair.

“It has felt better.” He grinned down at her. “But I can tell you this: I am glad I never tried to force myself on you.”

Jeannette looked to the bed, and though Treynor felt her flinch at the sight of the dead man, a small, victorious smile curled the corners of her lips.

“He deserved what he got,” she stated with conviction. “But it was certainly more than he expected.” And then, because there was nothing else they could do, they laughed.

The storm lessened an hour later, enabling the
Tempest
’s crew to pump the hold and mend some of the rigging and sails. By nightfall, the rain had stopped and the heavy cloud cover had thinned into wisps that allowed the moon’s light to shine through.

Still concerned about the damage the ship had sustained, Jeannette watched as they sewed the French lieutenant’s body into a tattered sail. With a cannonball at his head and at his feet, they threw him into the sea. Treynor stayed on deck, overseeing everything to that point. But then he collapsed. Bosun Hawker took command of the
Superbe
while Jeannette, feeling a strong aversion to the cabin where so much had happened that she would rather forget, cared for the fallen lieutenant in some lesser officer’s quarters.

Bone-weary, she slumped against him as her vigil lengthened into the wee hours of the morning. She longed to succumb to sleep, but worry and the many sailors who poked their heads in to see how their leader fared, kept her from nodding off.

When those not on duty finally searched out a hammock for a few hours’ rest, and the ship began to quiet down, she studied Treynor with a freedom she had never allowed herself.

The sight of his half-naked body mesmerized and thrilled her, quickly chasing away any thoughts of sleep. Leaning over, she touched his forehead and then his cheek, checking for fever, but felt none.

Never had she known a more virile man. Even in repose, Treynor’s powerful arms, square at the shoulder, dipped and then bulged again with the line of his muscle. His bronze-colored skin was so smooth—at least where he had not been wounded.

Laying her head over his heart, Jeannette said a prayer for him as she listened to its steady beat. Then she let her hands trail over his chest.

How would she go on without him? He stirred such fierce passion in her with the merest glance, was everything she admired, everything she held dear...almost.

Jeannette sighed. There was still her family. She couldn’t shirk her duty to them. Her sense of responsibility was too strong, too much a part of her.

But for now, she forced them from her mind. She’d been given this time alone with Treynor, and the memory of it would have to last her a lifetime.

Tentatively, she kneaded the corded muscles beneath her hands. When he didn’t stir, she grew bolder, letting herself luxuriate in touching him with as much abandon as she had dreamed of doing.

Delving her fingers into his thick hair, she kissed his still lips, then each eyelid before moving lower to taste the salt on his breast. Her fingers trailed over the lean flesh that rippled over his ribs. Laying her palms on the flat plane of his stomach, she played with the line of hair that extended down, below his breeches.

“Just the thought of your touch kindles my desire,” she breathed, committing to memory every contour of his body. “The sight of you makes me long to forget everything else—”

A subtle change in his breathing caused Jeannette to glance up. A pair of deep blue eyes, now open, watched her quizzically.

“Don’t tell me a count’s daughter wants to bed a mere bastard?” His words were slurred, but the jaunty arch of one eyebrow made his meaning clear.

Jeannette felt her face grow hot under his regard. “How long have you been awake?”

He frowned and pretended to search his memory. “The first thing I heard was something about the sight of me making you want to surrender everything.”

Averting her face in an effort to shield her embarrassment, Jeannette tried to move away, but he reached out to stop her.

“Still, I am not sure exactly. Why not tell me again, my little coward, now that I am capable of a response?”

“You are incorrigible.”

“I wasn’t the one kissing your breast, although I would certainly like the opportunity.”

A roguish smile revealed his teeth as he tried to shift himself in the bed, but ended up sinking back with a groan. “If you plan to make love to me when I am insensible, Jeannette, at least make sure I truly am. Otherwise, allow me to participate. I assure you, it is much more fun that way.”

“You are in no condition to—”

“I think I could manage.” He laughed. “It is, after all, a factor of motivation.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are delirious.”

“I must be. How I could be so...”—He paused. “...attracted to an aristocrat’s brat, I cannot fathom. It is the ultimate irony. Perhaps God is playing a joke on us both.”

“Attracted?”
Jeannette studied him for a moment. “I would say you feel more for me than that, no?”

She saw something flicker in his eyes, something warm and soft and compelling, but then his smile turned into a scowl. “Do not put words in my mouth, Jeannette. I have no room in my life for a woman. An aristocrat least of all.”

A sharp pain lanced through her. He didn't want her? Could she have misread the look in his eyes, his concern for her safety? It was difficult to tell. He wouldn’t meet her gaze now. “But you have plenty of room in your bed,” she said softly, testing him.

“If you want.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Jeannette could have sworn he winced when he added, “I have never promised you anything more.”

Struggling to keep her composure, she took a deep breath. After everything they had been through together, he still wasn’t willing to open himself to the possibility of love.

It didn’t matter, she told herself. They each had to keep an eye on their duty. But deep down, his denial did matter, far more than she would ever let him know.

“Perhaps you should approach a woman who is willing to settle for a few hours of pleasure at your hands.” She stood and avoided him when he tried to reach out to stop her from going.

“Don’t turn your nose up at something you know nothing about,” he called after her.

“I think I know more than you give me credit for,” she said.

Before he could see how deeply he’d hurt her, she marched out and slammed the door behind her.

Bosun Hawker cleared his throat, drawing Treynor’s attention away from the porthole where the morning’s sun filtered into the room.

“Sir, most of the leaks ’ave been fixed, at least temporarily,” he repeated. “An’ the men at the pumps are takin’ care of the rest.”

Treynor nodded, trying to forget Jeannette long enough to concentrate on the business at hand. She’d stormed out of his room the night before and hadn’t returned. He’d done only what he had to do, but his rebuff had pained him far worse than it could have hurt her. It angered him that his heart would betray him so completely.

“Sir?”

Treynor looked at him. “Very good, Hawker. How are we for supplies?”

“Most of the food’s ruined.”

“How many days do you think it will last?”

“Long enough ter reach ’ome, I ’ope. The wind's been comin’ from too far north to steer for England until today, an’ we've got three ’undred miles to sail. Given a fair wind it could take three days. If the weather turns, who knows?”

“And the sails?”

Hawker’s weathered face broke into a smile. “They’re ’olding up nicely. We found plenty of spares, an’ repaired most o’ the riggin’. If we ’adn’t lost the mizzenmast, we’d be ’alfway ter London by now.”

“What speed are we making?”

“Maybe three knots.”

Treynor smiled. “Not exactly racing home, are we, Hawker?”

“No, sir, but we’re movin’ steadily, thanks to ye. If ye ’adn’t done what ye did...well, we’d all be in France right now—and ’Is Majesty would not own this froggy excuse for a frigate.”

“The credit belongs to all of us.” Waving away the bosun’s offer of help, Treynor blanched as he sat up. Jealousy—he refused to call it love—had motivated him as much as patriotism to act as he did, but he wasn’t about to volunteer that information to Hawker.

The bosun harrumphed. “I don’t give credit where credit ain’t due. Like Mrs. ’Awker says, ye played the ’and what was dealt ye like the man of ’onor we know ye to be.”

Treynor’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. A man of honor didn’t try to seduce a lady. There were prostitutes enough to exhaust one’s lust. He had never lacked for female companionship. Yet the thought of taking anyone other than Jeannette to his bed no longer appealed to him. Somehow, he had gotten caught in his own web. A man of honor didn’t do that either, only a fool.

“I can see ye don’t like ter ’ear such praise,” Hawker went on. “But ye are what ye are, sir. No one can take that away from ye.”

Treynor tried to ignore the prick of guilt the bosun’s words caused. Fortunately, a flash of color at the door caught his eye. He turned, but was disappointed to see Mrs. Hawker and not Jeannette push her way into the room, carrying a tray of food.

“Where is Lady St. Ives?” he asked.

Mrs. Hawker’s expression let him know she did not approve. “Ah, Lieutenant. An 'ighborn lady like ’er can only spell trouble for the likes of a sailor, lieutenant or no. Ye’d best forget her.”

He didn’t need someone else to echo his own opinion. He held up a hand to stop the outspoken bosun’s wife before she had a chance to get started. “Please, don’t bother,” he grumbled. “I plan to do exactly that.”

Mrs. Hawker fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m glad to ’ear it, but gettin’ over ’er won’t be easy.”

Treynor let his irritation show. He knew Jeannette had managed to gain possession of a small piece of his heart—actually, she possessed the whole of it. But he was determined to reclaim it and get on with his life. She had to go back to England and get an annulment from the baron; he had a war to fight. The fact that he couldn’t get her out of his mind was merely fate’s revenge for laughing at other romantic fools.