Betrayed (21 page)

Amber eyed the captain warily. Why was he grinning so broadly? Even as she looked, he put the foghorn to his mouth, turned from her and called, “Ahoy, ye bloated belly slug.”

Her legs collapsed and down she went. “What are you doing?” she hissed, scowling at the imbecile.

“Ahoy yerself, ye varlet,” came the distorted rumble. “I see ye’ve finally unclogged Annan’s pretty sea view and removed that hulk of rotting wood.”

“I was finally offered a worthy motivation.” Laughing blue eyes sought her out. “What say ye? Should we invite the good Laird of Wamphray aboard fer a wee dram of whiskey?”

“Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me.” Real fear trotted along her spine. “Please, let him sail on by.”

“Krayne is a fast friend and I’ve ne’er known him ta harm a lass, less a lady stranger.” Graham spoke truthfully. Surely, now, the lovely Amber would spill her woes so he could decide whether to save her pert little arse or bed it.

Amber was scared, but she hadn’t lost her wits.

Graham Douglas could go to hell before she told him anything. Especially if he was a great friend of Krayne.

“You will not stop and you certainly will not invite that—that terrorising scourge of the seas aboard.”

“Since when do ye give orders ta the captain?”

“Since I bought and paid for him.”

Those blue eyes narrowed on her. “The price of two mares bought ye passage, not the ship.”

“How can you be so cruel?”

“Why dinna ye unfold that sharp tongue of yers and tell me what’s truly going on?”

“Nothing.” Amber dared a glance around the lower end of the mast she clutched, peering between the oak stems that formed the railing on the quarterdeck. The hull of the passing ship blocked her view, so close that if the sun lay correctly, the
Glory
would be cast in its shadow. With measured slowness, the blackness gave way to slots of blue, and then she saw only the rippled swell it left behind.

“He’s gone,” she said, much louder than she’d intended.

“He’ll be back,” Graham mused. That his voice had carried was very much intended.

“Christ Almighty,” swore Krayne, so fiercely that Blackie, Annan’s local smithy, cringed fearfully against the wall. Krayne turned on Alexander. “Round the crew. Ye’ll find them at Brown’s Alehouse and send fer Captain Jack.”

Krayne marched out ahead of Alexander, took the narrow path leading behind the forge and smashed his fist into the first tree he came across. Blood trickled down his knuckles. He did not feel a thing.

Alexander had been waiting for him at Annan, the blacksmith at his side to substantiate the claim that Krayne’s wife had fled and used his own mares to barter her passage.

Amber had fled.

Her parting kiss had been a passionate promise and she’d broken it the moment his back was turned.

He had not believed it. Not one word. Not until Alexander had taken him to the forge and the blacksmith had produced the proof.

His fist connected with the tree again.

First he would string Graham Douglas to his own mainmast and watch him strangle in the riggings. Then he’d lock his wife in the west tower on a diet of hard bread and bitter ale with only her misbegotten thoughts for company until she
begged
his mercy. And then he’d kill the Douglas bastard all over again.

Murder written across his face, Krayne marched back down the dirt path and through the streets of Annan. He truly hoped the maggot-brained Douglas had not so much as smiled at Amber. Else he would have to have him drawn and quartered and his head delivered to his nearest and dearest on a pike.

He didn’t want to have to do that. Graham Douglas had been a good friend until this day.

Amber was sitting up straight in the hammock, which was no small feat, watching Mary watch her.

He’ll be back.
She hadn’t questioned Graham Douglas. Neither did she doubt he spoke the truth. The three hours they had on Krayne, six if one took into account that he had to sail their distance to Annan and back, was not long enough.

And what then?

“You look as if the angel of death rides upon your shoulder, child.”

“He’d be most welcome at this moment,” Amber said, fearing Krayne’s eternal hate more than she feared death.

Mary was oblivious to what had transpired on deck and Amber had no intention of informing her. On top of everything else, she couldn’t bear the woman’s joyful tidings at the prospect of what she’d surely deem their God-sent rescue.

Mary tutted. “’Tis not like you to be overcome with despair. I cannot think what’s happened now, yet I wager ’tis readily rectified by turning this yard of scrap about and allowing us to go home.”

“Scotland is not home.”

“You’re a married woman, Amber,” she said rather sternly. “Your home is with your husband. These are vows made before God and not to be taken lightly. Whatever wrong the laird did you, or you him, put it right.”

“Easily said.”

“And more easily done.”

There was a token of merit to the older woman’s words, thought Amber.

If
she could undo what she’d done…

If
Krayne forgave her this latest escapade…

If
she used the threads of desire firing between them to weave a closer bond…

There was but one small problem standing between her and all those ifs. How could one go about losing your virginity without another soul knowing? Surely there was a way. She searched and searched her mind, but there seemed to be no simple answer.

Nothing had been simple since she’d set foot on Scottish soil!

Were she in England, she’d no doubt find a sophisticated lady of sorts with an answer to her dilemma. If there was a potion to abort a baby in the womb, then surely there was a potion to—to…dissolve her maiden barrier?

Insistent rapping at the door broke into her thoughts. Mary made no move to see who was there and what they wanted.

Sighing, Amber extracted herself from the hammock with less grace than a newborn foal and unlatched the door. When she saw Graham Douglas, sanity fled. Her first thought was that Krayne had caught up to them and was demanding her presence on deck.

“W—what is it?” she asked hoarsely.

“I brought ye a bowl of stew.” He grinned. “Ye didna make it down ta the galley.”

Only then did she see the two steaming bowls balanced precariously in one hand and the loaf of bread tucked under his arm.

Amber stood aside and he hurried forward to set the bowls down upon the berth that, apparently, was also the table. “Thank you.”

“’Tis my pleasure ta be of service, ma’am.”

“Amber,” she corrected, feeling closer in age to Mary when he addressed her so.

Blue eyes twinkled. “That wouldna be fitting now, would it? Ye being a lady and me a mere sailor.”

“You’re hardly a mere sailor,” she snorted.

“Yet yer still a lady and I dinna know yer title.” As he spoke, appreciative blue eyes danced down her crumpled gown that clung almost indecently after being drenched through time and time again.

Her hand reached instinctively for the cloak she’d hung on a peg, then stilled. Was this the answer to her prayers? Heat crawled up her throat as she looked at Graham through lowered lids.

What was she thinking?

Had she finally gone mad?

But Graham Douglas was a man. Although his handsome features were of no import, his easy-going manner was. Even more important, she believed he was a man of honour and a gentleman.

And gentlemen did not bed and tell, or so she’d heard.

Amber clamped her eyes closed and took a steadying breath. She couldn’t do this. Not even fear of Krayne was enough to…

But it was.

Krayne’s image stormed her mind and dread closed around her throat. Her skin crawled as she imagined Krayne’s features marred with disgust, those cold grey eyes boring into her soul, his lips drawn thin and straight as he vowed to hate her into eternity for the way she’d made him dance around her terror—all based on false accusations.

She heard the cabin door close and spun about wide-eyed.

“Come eat, child,” said Mary. “The stew grows cold and starving yourself will do none of us any good.”

She swirled about to stare at Mary.
Eat?
She could barely breathe.

She fled the cabin on unsteady legs, her heart pounding furiously between her ears. Something more than fear drove her on. All those
ifs
came back to taunt her, what might have been, what could have been, what could still be…

She stopped Graham Douglas halfway up the ladder with a breathless shout, “Captain. A word, if you please.”

He glanced down and quirked a brow. “Stand back.”

Her fingers slid from the ladder rung as she stepped away and watched his descent. When he was before her, she made her voice dusky. “May we talk somewhere in private?”

You’re a sinner and a fool,
said her inner voice. But Amber wasn’t listening. Her head and heart had already shut down in the rush of fear and hope. Graham would be kind. He would be gentle. He would hopefully be following that dream he’d mentioned the night before and sail down the Atlantic and out of their lives for a very long time.

“No one will disturb us here.” Graham looked about him with a shrug, then brought his blue gaze back to her.

“I—I need more privacy for w-what I have in mind.”

The husky tone, as deep and full as a sip of expensive wine from Burgundy, heated Graham’s blood. Not trusting himself to speak, he cocked his head and led her into the cabin he’d being using since giving up his own.

Once inside, he shut the door and leant against it, watching the lass take a few steps across the planks before coming to a stop. He couldn’t believe that the offer he’d heard in her tone was naught but a figment of his hopeful imagination.

“What exactly did ye have in mind?” Graham folded his arms with deliberation, saw the quiver on her plush lower lip and felt the reaction firmly in britches that were growing tighter by the quiver.

Her eyes came up to boldly meet his gaze. “I want you to…I need you…” She gave a small laugh. “I’m not sure how to do this.”

He didn’t need her to finish. His shaft thrust painfully at the brazen proposition he heard without the actual words. A slow grin sneaked across his face as fire raced through his veins. He made no attempt to prevent his gaze from roaming to where her thin woollen bodice clung to two ripe plums just large enough to fill his palms.

“W-well?”

The impertinent prod brought his eyes up, and he drank his full on the exquisite shape of her arched brow, the freckles he’d kiss right off her nose and the bow of lips he’d soon be tasting from.

The lady was eager and he saw no reason to dally.

For every step of his, however, she took one backward. His grin spread lazily as desire weighed heavily in his ball sacs. Aye, apparently he liked this coy game.

In that instant, he made the connection. This saucy vixen must be none other than Krayne Johnstone’s leman. Or ex-leman, taking recent events into account.

One more step and he had her flush against the wall, his one hand braced above her head to trap, the other lifting that pointed chin she’d dipped in modesty much too late. His mystery was solved and he felt no guilt, not even if she’d run away before Krayne could tire of her. If his friend was not man enough for this morsel of sweet heaven, then Graham would enjoy showing her that a Douglas was.

His mouth came down and took her lips with tender strength.

Pain shot his head back and his nostrils flared in surprise. Blood instead of honey soured his taste.

She’d bitten him.

The brazen hoyden had actually bitten him.

“No kissing.” Her command was curtly issued.

His eyes narrowed in displeasure, yet his shaft verged on release. Some men liked rough play and strange games. He was not one of them, but he wasn’t going anywhere either. He’d simply have to tame her to his wants.

“No kissing,” he agreed, looking deep into her eyes as his hand left her chin to cup beneath one delicious breast. “And no biting.”

The pad of his thumb found her hard nipple and he worked the nub with small circles. What sounded like a hiss was quickly followed by his hand being brutally swatted from its pleasure.

“No touching.”

His lips twitched, but then he suspected she might just be serious. Green eyes flashed at him, but not with heat. Up close, he reconsidered the quiver of desire on her lips and determined it might well be a tremble of fear.

When her hands came between them and shoved at his chest, he stepped back less willingly than he was proud of and that sparked a rare temper. The lass was half his size and nowhere near his match. She’d started this, whatever the hell this was. Too bad for her if she’d since had a change of mind, for he was hard and throbbing and nowhere near done.

Only, she wasn’t rejecting him, he quickly saw. Unless lunging for the berth and laying herself out flat was some new form of rejection.

Graham closed his eyes on a low growl as the beast inside him roiled. His breaths came harshly and sounded too much like panting, even to his own ears. Many moments passed before he felt any semblance of control. He pulled the lace free at his shirt, baring his chest as he followed to the berth.

Luscious visions of caressing satin-soft skin and fitting himself between creamy curves flashed before his eyes and made him swell beyond endurance. The fire in those green eyes would smoke for him.

Tossing his shirt into a heap on the floor, he bent over his temptation, pinning her lifeless form down with hands on either side. She didn’t wriggle beneath him in hot anticipation. Neither did she flinch in belated misgivings. Her fingers were coiled into fists at her sides, her eyes shut tight and, even with the skirts of her gown straightened neatly to her ankles, he could see her thighs pressed firm and sure together.

His loins screamed denial, but Graham could not ignore the plea of her body. Regret swarmed up him like a giant snake and came out as a heavy grunt. Slowly, working each muscle against its will, he rose, his eyes never leaving the feast spread out before him.

“No bedding either, it would seem.”

Her answer was a ragged gasp that came with what was clearly the first breath she’d released since stretching out upon the berth. She rolled onto her side to face the panelled wall.

His harsh curse went unspoken, yet resounded in his head as he slammed from the cabin and marched the passageway to the ladder. He took the rungs two at a time and punched the hatch open, gulping down air until the tangy bite of salt assailed his senses and the cool wind eased his ardour.

Women were the devil’s reward for being a good, honest Christian.

Ladies were his little helpers sent to see the punishment well executed.

High-born English vixens were the red horns that pricked and festered the bloody wounds.

And Krayne Johnstone was welcome to the lot!

Graham hauled himself onto the deck and strode across the length, booming to each man as he passed their station, “Furl the sails. We go ta beach. Furl the sails and take us in.”

He strode up the quarterdeck and shoved Brother Tom aside to take the wheel with the short explanation, “We’re dropping anchor.”

Wild orange brows crossed and met between the burly Scot’s pale blue eyes. “We’re in the firkin’ middle o’ naewhere.”

“Precisely,” Graham blew through gritted teeth. Iron-hard fingers clenched the wheel and turned the
Glory
leeward toward the long stretch of rugged coastline. “The perfect place ta be lost and found.”

In the cabin below, Amber curled into herself like a stricken kitten and choked down sobs.

She’d tried.

She’d tried so hard, but could not do it.

Graham had pulled back a mere moment before she would have attacked, kicking out and scratching as the scream building inside her unleashed.

She felt broken, unclean and ashamed.

She could not sink lower if Mary’s predictions proved true and this scuttle wreck sprung a leak to flounder on the ocean bed.

She’d not been touched, yet she felt sore, bruised and tainted. Her body ached in places that were not visible to the eye, behind her ribcage, low down in her gut, at the small of her back, inside the base of her throat. Her very innards were crying out at all that she’d endured, both now and then.

When the pain became too much, anger took its place.

She hated Krayne.

How had she ever thought to love him?

What was love, when it drove her to a place where she hated herself? This was his fault. Aye, what she’d come to, offering herself like a tavern whore to a stranger, was all
his
fault.

For days she’d been battering herself to pieces with a bludgeon of guilt when Krayne was half to blame. He’d kidnapped her, and then he’d attacked her like a raving drunk berserker. If she hadn’t feared him so completely, she’d not have embellished on her lies.

And she was mightily tired of fearing.

For someone who’d stalked boldly into each and every folly she could find for the simple pleasure of it, she’d had enough of that useless state.

Let him come.

Let him do his worst.

He’ll hate me.

A chuckle croaked halfway up her throat, raw and hoarse.

Good.

The thought of spending the rest of her marriage in gruelling battle to see who could hate the most was positively invigorating. He’d kidnapped her, falsely accused her, mistreated her and very nearly raped her. She was already in the lead by a few good points and she’d love to even the score.

When Krayne manoeuvred the
Joanna
sleekly along the length of the smaller anchored vessel, he left no room to lower a skiff. The sun was not around to see the gloaming in, for clouds had swept in with a feisty squall in the late afternoon and seemed set to linger. A chill wind rippled across the decks, whistling through the furled sails and doing its damndest to tangle the riggings. Trappings clinkered in disgust at the tempest swells, chorusing a metal song that filled the blustering air.