The Pirate Captain (103 page)

It had been a long time.

Cate had never considered herself to be a woman who needed a man to justify her existence, and had little understanding of those who suffered lack of purpose without one. On the other hand, it was a grand feeling to have one in her bed.

“Properly,” indeed. Just the word, uttered in Nathan’s husky graveled voice was enough to cause a warm flush and her belly to tighten.

She had been nervous, at first. Patient and gentle, Nathan had eased her out of her protective shell, across the chasm of unfamiliarity, and then coaxed her to take a leap of faith. Yes, there were pangs of guilt, whispers of betrayal to pledges made before an altar over a decade ago. It was imperative for her to move on. Nathan was an unexpected gift, literally a lifeline to a drowning soul; the Fates or Providence rarely provided such opportunities.

It had been a leap of faith into his arms. He had been there to catch her the night before, but could she count on him to be there again? Her hand drifted to the space next to her on the narrow bunk. Empty; he was already gone, his spicy sharpness lingering on the pillow, and the musk of their lovemaking his only trace.

Her afterglow spiraled quickly into the cold pit of reality, where it tangled in the muddled morass of the uncertainty of the last few weeks. There had been Nathan, the elusive and evasive; and Nathan, the teasing and mocking. Nathan, the sincere and passionate had been a fleeting phenomenon, to say the least. Which one was she to believe?

His numerous conquests being well known, she was seized by a crawling sensation that she had just become the latest in his tally book. An achievement through the oldest trick: the You’re-So-Special-I-Care-For-You-As-No-Other story. And she had fallen for it like an innocent maiden. It was easy to imagine the laughter overhead was him, exchanging smug glances and jests with the afterguard. She had been very young—15 or 16—the last time someone, a boy, wooed her with such nonsense. Seeing it then as the ruse it was, she had escaped unscathed.

Unscathed hardly described her now. Her lips were puffy and her breasts still tingled; Nathan had been very attentive there. Between her legs felt full and sensitive; he had been more than gentle, but five years had left her constricted. A flush of heat spread through those same softest tissues again at the thought of him in the candlelight, hovering over her, so dark and seductive.

What came even easier to the imagination was that it had all been an act, a ploy—a skill at which Nathan exceeded—aimed to attain what he needed: relief from a pair of aching balls. Wild versions of strange Pirate Codes raced through her mind, the crew being obliged to wait until the Captain finishes, and lines of men now forming just outside the curtain, awaiting their turn. Bizarre, true. Ridiculous, certainly. Ludicrous, probably. But self-doubts and second thoughts were powerful demons.

Brushing a strand of hair from her face, Cate felt the cool of metal brush her cheek. She held up her hand to see her wedding ring. That and her memories were all she had of Brian. She had taken vows, given herself to one man, just as he had given himself only to her. Her subsequent chastity had been a tribute to what they had shared. Now that was shattered.

Cate rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her hands.

“What have you done?” she groaned aloud. “Stupid. Stupid!”

She heard a sound and raised up on her elbows to find Nathan standing at the curtain, a cup and coffee pot in one hand, and a plate of orange slices and scone in the other. Something flickered across the otherwise frozen expression, too brief to be identified.

“Joy of the morning,” he chimed. He swaggered to the bed stand to set down his burdens. “I fancied you might desire a bit o' sustenance.”

An inexplicable surge of modesty caused Cate to snatch the quilt up around her. As Nathan poured coffee, she watched his hands, and reddened at the recollection of the marvels they had worked so very recently.

“I know how much you like this, first of a morning.” Nathan flashed a smile that ended far more quickly than usual. He met her gaze with difficulty as he handed her the cup.

Cate covertly watched him as she drank, wondering if he had heard her just moments ago.

Of course, he had. No secrets on a damned ship.

She thought of how appropriate a kiss might have been about then, but Nathan showed no inclination. Her most recent line of thought grew in veracity.

“There’s cinnamon in it,” she said, if for no other reason than to break the strained silence.

“I recalled you liked it,” Nathan said to the floor.

His lids hooding his eyes, it was impossible to know what was going on in that raven-colored head. It was doubtful anyone would ever be allowed that privilege. Someone so very, very special, to be sure.

“Well, on to it, then.” he declared abruptly. Pausing at the curtain, he ducked a stiff bow. “By your leave, m’lady.”

And he was gone.

She closed her eyes and dropped her head back against the bulkhead with a hollow thud.

Well
,
that didn't go so badly, but it certainly didn’t go well
.

While she dressed, she tried not to look back at the scrambled bunk. Contrary to popular opinion—and her mother—there was a drawback in being virtuous: lack of experience, knowing how to conduct oneself after a night of surrendering said virtue. She had but one such morning as her reference, and it barely equated: it had been her wedding night. Brian had greeted her with smothering kisses and…Well, they didn’t rise until they were so sore there was nothing else to do. Ah, but that night…!

What the hell were you expecting?
She fumed as she fumbled to fasten her skirt.
You’re a big girl now—and damn you, don’t you dare cry!

Exasperated, she halted from struggling with the elusive ties. She drew several deep breaths, loosened her shoulders, and set to it once more.

One learns by observing a master. In her case that would be Nathan. Judging by him, blasé seemed to be the word of the day. Urbane, sophisticated, or worldly were never her strengths. The damned French do it all the time, if she was to believe what she had frequently heard.

Dammit! Face it like a man, or at least this man, and ignore it. Wipe it away, like…like…

She angrily dashed at the wetness on her cheek. The thought of looking at herself in the mirror set the sip of coffee in her stomach into a nauseous swirl. She blindly jerked the brush through her hair, twisted up the sides and shoved in the combs. Snatching up the pot and cup, she drew a deep breath and went out.

The salon was empty, Hermione’s empty dish still on the floor. Nathan had been there, as evidenced by a half-drank cup of coffee. The breakfast of oranges and scones sat untouched. Neither were there any of the tell-tale dribbles of honey from him having dipped his finger in the jar. Apparently, Nathan had no appetite. With no taste for food either, she refilled her cup.

Beatrice marked a brilliant dash of color amid the room’s walnut walls. Perched atop a spice chest on the gallery sill, she paused in her preening to regard Cate. Well aware of the irascible creature’s preference to not be crowded, Cate sat on the sill at a respectable distance. In a rustle of feathers, the parrot hopped down and crab-stepped closer, her interest focused on Cate’s cup. She held it out for Beatrice to peer over the edge. Hackles rising in protest, Beatrice sidled away.

“I could have told you, but you always require to see for yourself,” Cate said to the accusing look she was given.

Head canted somewhat, Beatrice appeared as apologetic as a bird might. Cate tentatively reached to stroke the hyacinth-colored chest. To her surprise, Beatrice allowed it.

Nathan’s footsteps passed overhead. Through the open skylight came the sound of his good-natured railing with the afterguard.

Insufferable man!

“Hang the bastard,” Beatrice croaked with her customary clarity.

Cate smiled faintly. “Not quite what I was thinking, but a good flogging might answer.”

Shortly after, Nathan burst into the cabin. Amiably shouting back over his shoulder to someone outside, he came only so far as the desk near the doors. There he rummaged through several drawers, grunting in satisfaction at finding what he sought. With a curt nod in Cate’s general direction, he left.

“Although a hanging might answer to put one of us out of our misery,” Cate said in consideration as his voice faded down the deck.

“Plague and perish the maggot,” said Beatrice.

“Have a care. You’re beginning to sound like him.”

Cate’s humiliation bloomed in the wake of Nathan’s most recent performance, the horror of her predicament multiplying to near-paralyzing proportions. She was stuck: no escape, no options, and no reprieve in sight, a captive audience to Nathan’s gloating, and gloat he certainly would. It brought her to seriously question her judgment and the long list of assumptions she had made—and yes, they were clearly assumptions, now in the glare of day.

“Where were you last night when I needed you?” she said accusingly to the sun.

There was no surprise. This was Nathan; no more need be said. Home had just turned into a floating hell.

Cate looked with longing out the windows at the ship’s wake, its V-shape stretching into infinity, and wondered where Thomas might be.

Not much later, Nathan reappeared, stern and mute. Cate was on the sill, now feeding Beatrice bits of orange from breakfast. Stopping at the table, Nathan kept his attention fixed on the cup as he filled, and then took a drink. Setting it down, his gaze drifted her way and darted back. Shortly, his eyes crept back, and for the next few minutes, she and Nathan played a silent game of eye tag: looking and dodging away, the silence punctuated by a random cough or clearing of the throat.

He can’t even bring himself to look at me. Is this the what-have-I-done phase?

There was the chance that he despised her now. As always, the man was lauded for his prowess, while the woman was scorned for failing to be virtuous. A more rational voice pointed out that the picture of Nathan she pieced together in those few glimpses was other than expected. He lacked the much-dreaded vaunt, the braggadocio of the conqueror. If anything, Nathan was quite the opposite: reserved. She considered rearranging her countenance into something more benign, but dismissed it directly. Her edges were beginning to fray. He was a considerably better actor than she, and her resolve was withering quickly.

From the corner of her eye, Cate saw Nathan square his shoulders and assume an overt casualness as he came toward her. She fixed her attention on the sill, wondering if she should flutter her lashes or throw the plate. His boots scuffed to a stop and two luminous eyes came around into her view.

“Silence can be a deafening thing, don’t you think?” Nathan smiled, thin-lipped and brief. “Somebody should say something, or we’ll be obliged to start passing notes.”

He shifted and cleared his throat several times. Beatrice’s “Thrice-damned princock,” startled him, apparently not having noticed her prior.

“Must she be here?” he asked.

“I’d say she has a reasonable grasp of the situation,” Cate said, jerking her hand back to avoid a truculent clap of a beak.

Nathan narrowed an eye, willing the creature to leave. Parrots could be quite stubborn. True to her heritage, Beatrice cocked her head in acute birdish angles to peer at him.

Opting to ignore Beatrice, Nathan tucked his hands into his belts, his arms working triumphantly at his sides. “Open and honest, that’s me motto.”

Cate nearly choked. Caught so off-guard, she lost every thought—that, quite possibly, his purpose.

Something was on Nathan's mind, however, obvious in the furrowing of his brow and severe erosion of his customary amiability. His mouth worked under his mustache, struggling with some inner debate. He frowned and shook his head as he dismissed one unsatisfactory thought after another. He prepared to speak, then grimaced, changing his mind. After several more false starts, he clenched a fist and closed his eyes, looking much like a man commending himself to a firing squad.

“I require to know if…if…what we…when we…?” He gritted his teeth and forged on. “Pray tell if it was to be the once or…or no,” he finally burst out.

Nathan inhaled sharply, as if to suck it back in. Failing, he gathered pressed on. “’Tis not beyond me comprehension, if you were to invite me to your bed, just for the use of me.”

He assumed an off-handedness—as false as ever witnessed—as he began to pace before her. “God knows, I’ve been in much the same sorts meself. More than once—oh, very well, many a time—I’ve felt the dire need of someone warm, only for the sake of the having.”

“So if, as you say, it’s been a long time—a
very
long time.” His eyes rounded, mystified yet by the extent of her celibacy, “I would be more than sympathetic of you wishing—needing—to have…a source of said warmth, so to speak, long enough, at any rate, to render the necessity no longer necessary.”

Nathan's parody of affecting inconsequence might have been successful had it not been for the pained wince and a white-knuckled grasp on the butt of his pistol. There was another nagging contradiction: he had shaved. Even in the dim of the sleeping quarters, she had noticed his brightly gleaming cheeks. He had gone to the effort of making himself presentable.

“Pray tell, how many men do you fancy I’ve been with?” Cate asked, rising to her feet.

Nathan faltered and smiled tenuously. “You desire a number?” he asked, clearly hoping Cate would say “no.”

She crossed her arms. “If you please.”

Nathan winced at what he obviously had not wanted to hear. He looked to the ceiling and floor, as if the answer might make itself known. She knew she had put him in a no-win situation, for there was no good answer, and yet there was great joy in watching him squirm.

Fingers flickering, his mouth worked. “Maybe?”

“One.”

“One?” came out in a strangled wheeze, his mouth failing to close.

“If all I was looking for was a warm bed, I could have found that long ago.” The backs of her eyes began to sting. “I saved myself for one man, and when he was gone, I saved myself again, only to discover that I’m no more than…than one more on a long list of conquests.”