Too Great a Temptation (9 page)

D
amian sensed a moist cloth bathing his chest, the soothing movements allaying his scorched skin and evoking a heavy sigh from him.

Fingertips, tepid and damp, gently pried apart his parched lips, allowing icy drops to seep into his mouth and trickle down his dry throat. Swallowing, he grimaced at the shooting pain.

Once one body part grew conscious of its torment, all body parts rang out with the same anguished cry. Muscles ached unmercifully. A throbbing at the back of his head pounded with mounting intensity.

What had happened? Where was he?

Darkness clouded his mind. He tried to remember…a roar of thunder clapped in his ears. The wallowing ship lurched beneath his feet.

A storm.

There had been a storm.

Damian opened his eyes. A pale mist still shifting through his vision, he adjusted his gaze to the dimly lit cabin and scanned his surroundings, only to blink in bewilderment at the sight of Mirabelle seated on the edge of the bed.

The bed? He glanced around the room once more. He recognized the space. It was the same infirmary where Quincy had recovered. The same bed, even. The only thing different was Belle’s tender bedside nursing. She hovered above him, dousing his fevered flesh—his naked flesh.

Damian was suddenly all too mindful of his undressed state, his body rigid with the realization that there wasn’t much obstruction between him and Belle, only a thin blanket covering his lower region.

The twinge in his head ebbed away, replaced by a more critical ache in his loins.

She was oblivious to the fact that he was studying her. With each graceful stroke, she mapped the contours of his abdomen, her eyes traveling in the same direction, at the same leisurely tempo of her roving hand. But Damian felt the caress of her amber eyes more than the fondle of the wet cloth. And despite the agony tearing through every fiber of his being, he wouldn’t have twitched and disturbed her salacious rubdown to save his soul.

With the cool compress, Mirabelle gingerly traced a path from his navel to his neck, her meditative eyes absorbing every part of his body. Up and up went her golden gaze, until their eyes locked.

Damian had never seen such scarlet color rush into a woman’s cheeks so quickly.

His voice rumbled, his throat raw with pain, “Were you enjoying yourself?”

Mirabelle cleared her throat and chucked the cloth into a bowl of water, spray splashing onto the floor. “Drink some water.”

She was stunning when mortified, blooming rose pigment accentuating the soft lines of her regal features. He could spend an eternity admiring her.

But Belle had another idea. When he still didn’t move, she shattered his reverie by bracing one hand beneath his neck and picking up a glass with the other. She pressed the rim to his lips and he greedily drank.

Setting the glass back on the table, she wondered, “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” he admitted gruffly. “What happened?”

“Don’t you remember?” She eyed him closely. “We sailed through a squall two days ago. You hit your head during the storm and have been asleep ever since.”

The heavy mist enshrouding his thoughts slowly began to lift. More images came to mind: images of shadows taking in the sails, strikes of lightning…and a woman perched on a spar, about to be swept away by an enormous swell of water.

“I remember,” he said roughly, passion and fury now intermingled in his heated glare. “How could you be so daft, crawling out onto the spar like that?”

She stood up, hands hooking around her hips. “I
had
to lower the jibs or the ship would have torn to pieces.”

“You were almost killed.”

She snorted in rebuttal.

“Damn it, Belle, you can’t be that foolish again!”

“Foolish?” Her amber eyes flared. “If the ship went down, I
would
have been killed. So how was I being foolish by trying to keep the rig afloat?”

He gritted his teeth. “Someone else should have taken in the jibs.”

“I did what had to be done,” she said. “I’m not the half-wit you and my brothers seem to think I am.”

Her outburst at an end, she proceeded to the table and vented the rest of her temper on a folded sheet of linen, tearing it into long strips.

Watching her massacre the linen reminded him of the cloth already coiled around his head, and he demanded, “How did I strike my head?” Damian had captained his own ship for the last two years. He was not a fresh sailor, prone to slipping and skidding and knocking himself senseless whenever the waves grew rough.

Mirabelle heaved a deep sigh and paused. “Saving my
foolish
hide, that’s how you hit your head.”

More memories flooded forth: Mirabelle in his arms as he’d yanked her from the death grip of a monstrous comber. He had collided with the deck boards in the wake of the violent upheaval, like a boulder plunged off a cliff, smashing against the rocks below.

Damian winced in discomfort, reliving the entire scene again in his mind. No wonder he had such a pounding headache.

“Are you hungry, Damian?”

For you,
he thought, then shoved the carnal impulse aside. He was already in agony, and didn’t need the added burden of lust to cause him even greater torment.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, voice hoarse and strained. “How’s the ship?”

She went back to shredding the linen. “The mainsail was badly damaged, but it’s being repaired now. We should be under way in a few days.”

Silence.

All he could think about was her spicy touch and the arousal he was still struggling to tamp down. The quiet that had settled between them only ignited his imagination, giving him the opportunity to study her without distraction and envision all sorts of decadent things, like her tearing those strips of linen without a stitch of clothing on.

He pictured the naked swell of her arse, the smooth and creamy skin pressed against the eager palms of his hands as he caressed her bare bottom.

He closed his eyes and groaned softly.

What the devil was the woman doing in here anyway? Damian had a hard time believing the captain would send his own sister to nurse an injured man who was not her kin. A naked man at that!

The provocative thought struck him soundly. Had Belle been the one to undress him? Had she stroked and fondled him in more intimate ways while he was asleep? Better yet, had she enjoyed it?

Bloody hell, she was driving him mad.

“What are you doing in here?” he suddenly snapped.

Belle dropped the linen back on the table and glared at him. “Making bandages. What does it look like?”

He delved deep into the honey gold pools of her eyes, fringed with long, flaxen lashes. “You weren’t making bandages a few minutes ago.”

A blush adorned her cheeks. “I was
trying
to bring down your fever. Your skin is on fire, you know?”

Thanks to you, Belle
, he wanted to growl aloud. Did the woman think him so daft with the chills that he couldn’t recognize the desire in her eyes?

Blast her! She was going to destroy his resolve, hack it to pieces like that unfortunate scrap of linen.

He couldn’t bear to have her as his bedside nurse, rubbing his fevered flesh each day, making his groin throb and his heart pound and his fingers ache to hold her. It was even more insufferable knowing her attraction to him wasn’t just in his head anymore, that she really did feel something for him in return.

“You shouldn’t be here, Belle.”

“Fine.” She stalked over to the door. “Quincy can see to the rest of your needs.”

Flustered, she left the cabin, and Damian was both glad and sorry to see her go.

She was a temptress all right. Heaven to look upon and hell to resist. At least he was laid up in bed and couldn’t go about seducing her—if he was daft enough to even try. That was one small consolation. His only hope was that
she
stayed away from him. If fate had even a measure of pity for him, he wouldn’t see Belle again until the ship docked in England.

Damian could wish.

“Bloody stink hole.”

Crammed in the narrow corner of the bow, with a bucket of tar in one hand and strips of old canvas in the other, Mirabelle patched up the tiny leaks that had sprung during the ocean voyage.

She had volunteered to do the disgusting job in the hopes of proving to her skeptical brethren she was a capable seafarer, that she was just as hardened as any of them. Even the churlish captain would have to concede that point after she flawlessly demonstrated her nautical skills…or so she tried to convince herself. Deep down, though, she knew the real reason she had asked James for the most vile task aboard ship. To keep her mind—and hands—off Damian.

Mirabelle let out a heavy sigh, the memory of Damian’s exquisite muscles beneath her fingertips still sizzling in her mind. She hadn’t meant to get
that
close to him. Truthfully, she hadn’t. Her intention had been to check on him. Nothing more. After two days, he had yet to regain consciousness, and she’d started to suspect he might never wake up. That Quincy was designated nursemaid didn’t help soothe her unease. Her young scamp of a brother was the most irresponsible of the lot, and she was convinced he wouldn’t make a proper aide.

Skittish and inconsolable, Mirabelle
had
to see Damian for herself—even though she was expressly forbidden to do so. James had issued the order soon after Damian was injured. It had never occurred to her why she wasn’t allowed in the infirmary. The order seemed rather unreasonable, but she had followed instructions without protest, not wanting to come off as a disobedient tar…until the paranoia had gripped her. What if Quincy forgot to check on Damian’s head wound and the man bled to death? Or what if her brother didn’t give Damian enough water and he died of thirst?

The constant fretting was making her restless and she’d decided to put her frazzled nerves at ease. Just one quick peek at Damian was supposed to quiet her jitters.

It did anything but. After sneaking into the infirmary, she had discovered Damian was fine, all right—and naked as a Greek god. No wonder James had threatened to chain her to her bedside if she ventured anywhere near the navigator while he was recovering.

But the deed was done. Damian looked in good order—incredibly, Quincy was more attentive to his needs than she’d thought he would be—and she should have walked away at that point. But something had compelled her to stay.

Damian’s bare chest
.

She blushed. She was stuck in a dark corner of the ship, alone, and still she blushed. Well, it wasn’t her fault the man had such a virile physique. She was drawn to his muscular curves, as she’d been drawn to them on the night he’d first kissed her. And she’d assured herself a quick touch, to appease her carnal impulse, wouldn’t do any harm.

But one touch had informed her Damian wasn’t doing as well as he appeared. On that point, at least, Mirabelle could console herself with the knowledge that if she hadn’t ventured into the cabin, Damian might have perished from his fever. The thought helped quiet her raging guilt over the pleasure she had felt staring at—and touching—Damian’s magnificent form.

Mirabelle sighed again. Her back twisted with pain, she stood up to stretch. It wasn’t doing her any good, all the difficult and repulsive labor. Damian was still wedged firmly in her thoughts.

Feeling a little light-headed from the tar fumes, she decided to head topside for a break. She found Quincy on deck, arms folded over his chest, staring up at the sky with apparent fascination.

“What are you looking at?”

Quincy flashed her a quick and devilish smile. “Eddie’s tending to the last yard.”

Mirabelle looked up to find her brother Edmund perched on the mainsail yard, pounding away at the extra supports. His legs straddled the beam, and with a mallet in one hand, he reached for the nails tucked between his teeth with the other.

“Are you expecting him to do something amusing?” she asked in confusion.

“Yup. Come crashing down on his head.”

She made a noise of disgust. “You have a twisted sense of humor, Quincy.”

He laughed at that. “It runs in the family.”

“
I
wouldn’t find Eddie tumbling down the ratlines very funny.”

He offered her an odd look. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? I suppose you take after Mother.”

She pursed her lips. “What does that mean?”

“Only that Mother was solemn, that she rarely laughed, or so I heard from our brothers.”

“Well, that might have had something to do with the fact that she didn’t lead a very happy life while Father was away.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Mirabelle turned away from her brother, and cast her eyes over the somber gray waves and the congested midday sky, billowing with clouds. She caught sight of a ship on the horizon, drifting aimlessly like the
Bonny Meg
. The squall must have disoriented a whole slew of vessels, she thought.

After a short pause, she asked quietly, “How’s Damian?”

“Fine. He’s awake now.”

Her heart thumped a bit faster. “That’s good.” She waited to hear if Quincy would mention anything about her being in the cabin. She wasn’t sure if Damian had confessed her presence there. After all, she had left in a huff, miffed that he had all but ordered her out of the cabin. Though she still wasn’t sure why. Why she was miffed, that was. She should be grateful that at least one of them had enough sense to realize she shouldn’t have been in there. Anyway, she never got the chance to ask Damian
not
to reveal her visit.

“Yah, I’m glad he’s doing better, too,” said Quincy. “I just changed his bandages a little while ago. He grumbled the whole time, though.”

Solace came over her when Quincy didn’t say anything about her spat with Damian. The man must not have mentioned it to her brother. But then bafflement replaced her relief, and she furrowed her brow. “Why was Damian upset when you changed his bandages?”

“I think I tore too many strips of linen. His head’s as big as a bull’s.” Then, mystified: “I could’ve sworn I made just enough strips for one dressing.”