Swept Away By a Kiss (14 page)

Bebain’s fingers closed around her arm. He stood. Valerie fell against the table’s edge and he grabbed her and yanked her close.

“Why have I waited?” he murmured in airy falsetto, his gaze running from her crown down the length of her body. “Why have I waited?”

“Again, I do not know,” she murmured. “But you needn’t wait any longer.” Before she could think, feel, struggle for freedom, Valerie opened her lips and pressed them against Bebain’s.

She began to count. As he clamped his arms around her, surrounding her with his long, wiry body, as he sucked on her tongue and nausea pummeled through her, as she moved her hands along his arms to distract herself from the pushing hardness between her thighs, as his hands grasped her buttocks, kneading, pinching, pulling her thighs apart, as she tried to breathe without releasing the sobs and screams—she counted.

She counted to sixty, then to one hundred, then higher as Bebain’s sloppy mouth polluted her hair and neck. She counted as he rubbed her legs, as his fingers pawed her skirt and pulled it up.

Panic seized Valerie and she could count no longer. She pushed against his chest, instinct driving her strength. He grabbed her hands. Forcing herself to cease struggling, she looked up. Bebain’s pale blue eyes glittered with dementia and the unmistakable thrill of power. His face moved toward hers again.

But her body would not accept what her mind insisted it must. She struck out again at the pirate’s grasping hands. He warded off the blows and swung her against a high chair back, pinioning her arms against the chair.

“It is impolite to fight like this, my beauty,” the Frenchman trilled. “I know you desire our ultimate union, but perhaps you enjoy it better like this, no? I am often unimaginative when a woman is so beautiful. Imagination is not as necessary then, is it?” His lust was palpable in the humid heat of his breath upon her cheek. “Eh, but I will play along to make you happy.”

His arm snaked around her and his hand clamped on her breast, his nails driving into her soft flesh. Valerie shouted out with pain, and triumph crossed his features. She slammed her heel down upon his foot, and his eyes kindled in a flash of fury before the impact of his hand shattered against her face. Reeling, she felt her skirts sliding up her legs. She exploded against him, freeing a hand to pound at his face and jerking her knee between his legs.

Abruptly he released her, his eyes bulging. The marble-handled carving knife protruded from the side of his neck, blood soaking his neck cloth. A gurgling groan passed through his crimson-stained lips. His incredulous gaze shifted over her shoulder, then he stumbled across the chamber, slammed against the table and collapsed. Upon the floor, he twitched, a pool of blood gathering beneath his head, and went still.

Valerie pivoted away, her stomach churning into her throat. She swallowed hard.

“What took you so long?” Her voice came forth thin.

“It is a very small knife.”

Improbably, a smile of hysterical release tugged at Valerie’s lips. She turned. Etienne extended his hand. Valentine’s lethal gift to her glinted upon his palm. The ropes that had bound him curled beneath the chair by the door like discarded snakeskins. He held one arm gingerly against his chest. Valerie’s smile vanished, her heart pounding again.

“You are hurt.”

He shook his head and moved forward, fierce concern coloring his eyes. Her breath caught as his fingers brushed tenderly across her cheek where Bebain had struck her, and his gaze slipped to her mouth. Valerie’s lips parted. Slowly, one corner of his sculpted mouth curved. Relief, strong and sweet, washed over her.

A key rattled in the lock. Etienne tilted his battered face toward the entrance, but his gaze remained on hers. The door slammed wide. Maximin stood in the opening, brandishing a cutlass. Valerie backed away, but Etienne grasped her hand, gently solid, enveloping her fear.

“It is done,” he said to Maximin.

The sailor’s sword arm dropped. He cast a surprised glance at the dead pirate.

“Evidently not according to plan.” He shrugged. “But it is better this way.”

Etienne’s fingers slipped from Valerie’s. “For some.”

Maximin snorted, then smiled. Valerie stared at him in wonder. Then she took a deep breath.

“He is injured, though I doubt he will admit it.”

“As usual,” Maximin replied. “But as there is much to celebrate and also much work yet to do, we must see that he heals without delay.”

Chapter 14

W
elcome to the
Blackhawk
,
mademoiselle
. It is a pleasure to have you aboard.”

Daggers of sunlight shafted through dark clouds, casting short, inconstant shadows across the deck where Maximin leaned against the foremast’s base.

“Good day,
monsieur
. Or is it one?” Well fed, bathed, and rested, Valerie allowed her fortified courage to propel her from the hatchway toward the sailor. She had not seen him since the night before, when Zeus drew her from the scene of Bebain’s murder to her cabin, no longer a prison. She had slept alone for many hours.

“Call me Maximin. Indeed, it is a good day, Lady Valerie. There is nothing to fear here now.”

“But you did not fear Bebain, did you? Etienne didn’t either. I may not understand what happened here, but that is clear enough. He would not have allowed Bebain to beat him, otherwise.”

“Ah, you are as shrewd as he has said.” He quirked a brow. Something in the gesture reminded her of the Jesuit.

“How were you able to do it? Is this mutiny? Disloyalty is common amongst pirates, isn’t it?”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Black’s the white of my eye, ma’am. The
Blackhawk
is restored to her rightful master. If that is mutiny, then so be it.”

“Her
rightful
—?” Valerie’s mouth gaped, but consternation swiftly overcame her. “I know you do not expect me to understand your sailor’s cant,” she clipped. “And I have clearly misjudged the matter to think that now the madman is dead someone will offer me straight answers. How did you and Etienne conspire together?”

“Ask him yourself.” Maximin gestured aft.

Nerves jangling, Valerie turned to see the priest emerging amidships from the gun deck. He climbed to the bridge with comfortable purpose. Only a breath of stiffness in his graceful movements revealed the toll Bebain’s beating had taken upon him.

He turned to her, and their gazes met across the expanse of deck. Valerie moved forward. Her breaths shortened as she climbed the steps.

He had exchanged his Jesuit’s habit for a sailor’s shirt, waistcoat, breeches, and a broad-brimmed hat. The clothes defined his well-muscled thighs and accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was breathtakingly masculine. Valerie’s gaze flickered to the bandage over the wound beside his eye and the sling hanging from his shoulder, unused. He looked, absurdly, as she always imagined a pirate would, only infinitely more beautiful.

She shook off the foolish notion and squared her shoulders.

“Am I to understand that you are the true master of this ship?”

He tilted his head, studying her, his gaze enigmatic.

“Yes, although when I am on land Maximin captains the crew.”

“How can that be? You were a prisoner. Or weren’t you?”

“I was. Just as you.”

“Aboard your own vessel?”

He nodded to a sailor standing nearby. The man took the wheel into his hands, and Etienne gestured for Valerie to walk ahead of him astern.

“And your crew?” Upon deck, the activity of sea travel continued as industriously as ever. But Valerie noticed a difference, a levity in sun-blackened shoulders, newly assured gaits. “Who are these men?”

“They are freemen. Haitians.”

“You lied to me.”

“Not precisely.”

Valerie shook her head.

“Then you withheld the truth.”

“An unfortunate necessity.”

“There is no such thing.”

“You are young, yet.”

“And you are a wizened octogenarian?” she snapped. None of it made sense. “Maximin says this ship is called
Blackhawk
. Is it a pirate ship? Were you responsible for seizing Raymer’s vessel?”

“You needn’t concern yourself over Raymer. He will be compensated for his losses.”

Valerie blinked her astonishment.

“What sorts of buccaneers compensate their victims? You offer me riddles rather than answers.”

Etienne regarded her intently. He touched her arm.

“I regret that I have told you all that I am able.”

She yanked away from him, as much to still the rushing of her blood as in irritation.

“In point of fact, you have not told me anything. Am I no longer a prisoner?”

“You are free. Twelve hours dead ahead is a ship that will take you to shore. There, transport to England will be arranged for you. You will be home in a month.”

Valerie remained silent for too long. Waves broke against the hull, sails cracked, and above the sounds Steven’s heartbeat raced fast and hard, ricocheting in his ears. It had taken all his hard-learned discipline to say those words. But she clearly would not accept her fate easily, as he had feared since the moment he met her.

“So, that is that?” she finally uttered. “I am to be sent away, summarily, without explanation?” She was trying to sound affronted. But hurt trembled in her words, echoes of remembered banishments, her father’s cruelty. Steven clamped down upon his refreshed anger.

“My crew and I have business that cannot be delayed. You are safe. Do you need more security than that?”

Her eyes flashed.

“I don’t need anything from you. What I wish is to know why a French priest captains a crew of Haitians, pillages merchant ships, and takes people hostage. Is this the sort of pressing business you speak of?”

“When required.”

“It was not accidental that the
Blackhawk
seized Raymer’s vessel, was it? What was that envelope Raymer’s navigator gave you? Is he a spy for the French?”

Steven masked his surprise. She couldn’t know how close to the truth she came. But she was a clever woman, too clever for her own good. And his. He remained silent, watching her fists clench in her skirts.

“Splendid,” she said. “If you will not tell me that, tell me what sort of priest murders a man in cold blood.”

Steven dragged his memory from the pirate’s hands upon Valerie’s body.

“Hardly cold.”

She swallowed awkwardly, drawing his gaze to her lovely neck, dark tresses pressed against milky skin in the breeze. Steven took in a hard breath, slipping back to her turbulent eyes.

“Then,” she said unsteadily now, “what sort of priest murders a man at all? Is this what Rome teaches? Are you a cleric or an assassin?” Emotion lit her eyes. Anger. Frustration.

Betrayal.

“I am the man you know me to be, Valerie,” he said quietly, speaking the truth with raw clarity. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Her brow creased, her wide eyes glistening. “Well, that simply does not suffice.”

“Valerie, thank you.”

“And I suppose you expect me to say the same to you?” she retorted. “I will not.” She turned her back to him, then paused. “I will be ready when we meet the other ship. And believe me, I will be glad to be rid of this den of liars and thieves.”

Without waiting for his reply, she strode across the deck and down into the shelter of solitude.

The sun slipped beyond the horizon, and the cool air settled upon Valerie’s skin with chilling fingers. She did not take any comfort in the lavish dinner Zeus laid out for her, or in her empty bed. Peculiarly breathless, she sought the dark night upon deck.

Atop all remained calm. Only a night’s skeleton crew skulked about the main deck, quiet in the dusky shadows. Valerie leaned against the forecastle rail. A silvered-almond moon waxed over the ocean, and breeze stirred the hair escaping her hood.