Swept Away By a Kiss (4 page)

Valerie’s fingers tightened around his.

“Will you say something poetic now?” she asked, her sweet voice slightly unsteady and hurried. “Men always try to say poetic things when they halt just shy of kissing a woman’s hand.”

Steven stared, heat surging through him. Clearly he had been at sea far too long. No woman’s touch had ever gotten him hard so quickly, her voice stealing into his lungs like the musky smoke of incense. It must be the enforced celibacy. Though that failed to explain the sharp familiarity of her touch.

Beautiful, willful, desirable . . . familiar.

A distraction from his purpose.

“Do they?” he managed to reply with credible evenness.

Her rose-hued lips curved into a playful grin, lips far too shapely to be used solely for speaking. She nodded.

“Oh, yes. Typically about flowers.” Her cheeks dimpled, but her gaze stayed firmly in his, as though it cost her effort to appear amused.

“Flowers?”

“Of course.” Her tone hinted at strain. A man less skilled in reading subtle cues might not notice that, or the delicate flickering of the gold-rimmed cameo pinned to her bodice disturbed by her heart’s quick, hard beats.

“To what purpose, I wonder,” he said, slipping the pad of his thumb over her knuckles.

The cameo flickered faster.

“To describe the woman as a flower. To make amends for whatever he said wrong, or simply for not kissing her.” She bit her soft lower lip.

“How remarkable.” He should stop this. “What sort of flowers?”

“I would think a Frenchman, of all people, would know that. But perhaps . . .” Her gaze slipped to his chest, taking in his priestly garb once more. Her eyes came up again, the same vibrant need in their sea-blue depths. “A lily, tulip, rose, what have you.”

“I begin to think, my lady,” he said slowly, “that you are no prosaic flower. Rather you are like cool rain after an overly warm summer day.”

“Good heavens,
monsieur
, rain?” Her eyes glimmered too bright. She spoke quickly. “Not a red, red rose, or a velvet tulip touched with dew? I don’t know whether to be impressed or disappointed by your originality. But I appreciate your effort. Fate has been unkind to you, I am afraid, to have crossed your path with a poetically jaded woman.” She laughed, a brittle cascade of false pleasure.

Steven had enough. She didn’t want this inane banter and neither did he. Not after what she had just said about fate, his path, and her. His grandfather’s words resounded in his head, her fingertips pressing warmly to his palm, as though some part of her might steal within him through such a simple channel.

He released her hand.

“I pay no attention to fate,
mademoiselle
. Only to fortitude.”

“Fortitude?” Her gaze met his squarely, a question in their expressive depths.

“Forgive me, Lady Valerie, Father.” Raymer came toward them. “I am terribly sorry to have abandoned you for so long. The quartermaster needed me to— But that would not interest either of you, of course.” He offered Lady Valerie his arm.

She tucked her hand into his elbow.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Raymer. Monsieur La Marque and I have just discovered a shared dislike of poetry. He has quite diverted me, really.” Her voice sounded nearly steady.

The captain smiled at her and patted her hand. “Would you like a tour of the ship, my lady?”

Her gaze flickered to Steven again.

“Very much, thank you.”

“Good afternoon, Father,” the shipmaster said, and bowed. She sketched a curtsy, and the pair walked away. Steven watched after them, the graceful sway of her hips holding his gaze.

She called him
monsieur
. Not Father.

He rubbed a palm over his face and took a deep breath. One more day until they caught up with the ship that would take him away from this woman. One more day, and counting.

Storms rocked the ship
.

In her dream, Valerie knew she dreamed. She tried to wake herself.

Thunder and rainfall on the deck above sounded quick and staccato, like the clattering of booted feet. Safe within, she heard the dolphins, alongside bow and beam, springing high on silver-laced wings, reaching, stroking the midnight ether, warning her in frantic voice
.

Valerie tugged at the bed linens to cover her ears. She struggled and pulled again but some force held her still. She pushed. A hand gripped her arm.

Crashing into wakefulness, Valerie flung the hand away and bolted from the bed. Harriet tumbled to the cabin floor, fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with fright.

Hurried footfalls still thumped upon the deck above—real, not a dream. Shouts rose, and the sharp snap of a revolver. Valerie’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Gripping her maid, she dragged her into the narrow space between the cot and deck. With a terrified whimper, the girl pressed inside the crevice and Valerie threw the bedlinens over the opening. She reached for her gown and slid it over her shift, pushing her feet into half boots, drawing her hair into a hasty knot, then wrapping her hooded cloak about her. Hesitating for only an instant, she reached into her traveling trunk, grabbed a short, sliver-thin knife encased in red leather, and tucked it into her cloak pocket.

The wild pattering of footsteps above stopped. Only the lapping of water against the ship’s hull and muffled voices upon the deck disturbed the stillness.

The merchantman’s guns were quiet.

Valerie opened the door and peered into the lamp-lit emptiness of the captain’s day cabin. The door to the gun deck gaped wide. Beyond, the hatch cover above the stair yawned, but not a breath of moonlight shone down the opening. Dread skittered up Valerie’s spine. Any girl reared in the English countryside knew what a new moon meant, that postilions and gatekeepers could not see the swift advance of thieves until it was far too late.

For a terrible moment, she stood rooted to the deck floor. Then she straightened her shoulders. She would rather be taken fighting than cowering like her terrified maid. Gulping down another breath, she sent herself up into the night.

Torches lit the deck. No broken bodies littered the deck, no sign of scuffle at all. The merchant sailors were trussed to barrels and rails, a few groaning, but no blood anywhere. A sleek little craft rested upon the water not far distant, its crew members busy transferring the Dutch trader’s lighter cargo to their own ship.

Valerie searched for Mr. Raymer, finding him strapped to the helm on the poop deck. Mouth gagged, his eyes opened wide.

A massive arm swung around Valerie and dragged her backward. Before she could reach for her knife, an enormous fist trapped her hands and pressed them against her midriff.

“Remain still,” a deep voice at her ear rumbled in French, “and you will not be harmed.”

Small comfort coming from a man who could clasp both her hands in one of his. Footsteps approached.

“What do you have there, Zeus?” a sharp voice said. Valerie’s captor turned her around to face the questioner.

The man’s lined face was lean, almost like a caricature. Deep-set eyes gleamed beneath pencil-thin brows, and a shock of peppery hair rose high upon his forehead, sliding in a slick trail to his shoulders. His mouth widened into a grin.

“Ah, how marvelous,” he exclaimed. “A pearl nestled amongst scabby oysters. We’ve won an unexpected treasure.”

Valerie shivered as the pirate’s pale, glittering gaze ran over her. He could see little of her cloak-wrapped body now, but he would undoubtedly see much more shortly. She clamped her mouth shut, resisting the nausea rising in her throat.

“Come now, beautiful lady, do not succumb to modest vapors so soon,” he said lightly. He raised his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “So much of the evening remains to be enjoyed, no?”

Despite herself, Valerie trembled. It seemed that her giant, silent captor held her more gently, but she must be imagining it.

“Captain!” a sailor called from across the deck.

“Ah, Mr. Fevre, my true and worthy mate.” The pirate captain gripped Valerie’s arm and pulled her around.

“We have subdued him, and the ship is loaded.” Fevre cast only a brief glance at her before he spoke. His shoulders were stooped, and his eyes shifted anxiously from face to face. A patch of dark moisture spread across the front of his trousers. Valerie looked away quickly.

“Good,” the captain clipped. “ Show me.”

Reluctantly, it seemed, Fevre gestured aft. A pair of sailors led La Marque forward from astern. Bound with ropes, he seemed almost pale beside the black- and brown-skinned men flanking him, like all the pirates except the captain, including the massive, inky-fleshed arm encircling her shoulders.

“Magnificent,” the pirate captain purred. “Take him to the ship and go back yourself, Mr. Fevre.” He turned to Valerie again, eyes glimmering feral. “I will return when I finish here.”

Valerie’s mouth went dry. As Fevre turned to follow orders, La Marque’s softly assured voice cut the velvet darkness.

“You do not wish to burden yourself with this woman, Captain.”

Drawing Valerie’s cloak from her shoulders, the pirate halted and turned to the priest. Irritation twisted his grotesque features.

“On the contrary, she is no burden to me whatsoever. You, however, should take care not to cause me more trouble, my little priest. I have already made sufficient allowance for you, and I will not make more.” He gestured to the guards. “Away with him.”

The captain motioned for Valerie’s captor to release her. Zeus’s huge arm slid away, and the pirate ran his fingers across her jaw. She pressed down upon her terror.

“She is unmarried,” the priest’s voice again crossed the deck. “And she is of noble blood. Her family will not like to learn you have trifled with her. You will find yourself in greater trouble than you wish.”

The Jesuit’s guards stopped at the edge of the ship. It seemed amazing, and foolhardy, for them to disobey their captain. But everyone knew pirates were a democratic lot. Perhaps the Jesuit knew his game well enough.

The buccaneer master laughed.

“What do I need fear—me, Gaston Bebain—of some idiot, effeminate English lordling?” Bravado colored his voice. He twisted a lock of her hair around his thumb, then rested his clawed fingers upon her cheek. Valerie resisted the instinct to jerk away.

“Soft, like China silk,” he murmured. “But you say she is unwed, my clerical friend? This intrigues me. I assumed she was the wife of our stalwart old master here.” He laughed again, gesturing toward the Dutch sailors. He dropped her tresses and turned from her as though she were of no further interest to him. He considered the Jesuit again, frowning.

“The sad truth is that I have no use for an innocent aboard my ship. She would do me little good like that.” His voice was conversational. Valerie shivered. She understood that tone and the abrupt shifting of attitudes. Bebain was mad.

He approached the priest, a thoughtful expression upon his face. Frustration stirred in Valerie’s trembling limbs. How could La Marque remain so calm and still, as though her fate weren’t being spoken of in terrible terms on a ship likely to be sunk in short order? Why didn’t he speak again, convince Bebain not to harm her, or all of them?

Her fists clenched as her tight throat constricted.

“For God’s sake, Etienne, do something.”

“Etienne! Etienne?” the captain purred. “We are employing Christian names with the English beauty, are we, Father? How charmingly intimate.”

The priest remained silent, his gaze hard.

“Hm, I suppose you know something about her unwed condition, after all. From personal experience, my friend, or can you convince me otherwise that she is—hm, how shall we say?—maladroit for my use?” Bebain spoke as one man to another, as though discussing the merits of wines or cigars. Valerie’s blood slithered with ice.

“She is untouched, well protected since the moment she came aboard.” Etienne’s voice mimicked the pirate’s casual tone. Then it dropped deeper, suggestive. “She would not serve a man of mature tastes well.”