The Ravishing One (18 page)

“Go. Faster.” The sailor snapped at her. Fia moved in the direction he indicated. At the side of the ship the sailor hoisted the trunk from his shoulder, called out loudly, and heaved it over the side. Fia rushed forward, certain he’d flung her belongings into the ocean. Angry cries erupted from below. The sailor laughed uproariously and slapped his thigh.

Fia looked over the gunnel. A small wooden boat bobbed a dozen feet below, its four crewman shaking their fists upward. One man, sitting beside her upturned trunk, rubbed his leg, grimacing in pain. Beside her, the Portuguese sailor hooted with malicious delight.

“What goes on here?” The laughter abruptly died, as did the shouts and curses from below. Thomas strode along the deck, a satchel tossed over one broad shoulder, his hair rippling in the breeze.

The Portuguese deckhand answered in rapid-fire fashion. The injured sailor below bellowed up what could only be a refutation. Without warning, Thomas dropped the satchel and snatched a handful of the Portuguese’s grimy shirt.

Instinctively, Fia retreated. The sailor clawed uselessly at Thomas’s wrist. Thomas shook him like a mastiff with a hare, speaking in a low, lethal voice. Whatever he said had a profound effect on the Portuguese. The man blanched and gulped, nodding frantically.

With a curse Thomas dropped him. The sailor fell on his bum and scuttled backward until he came up hard against the mast. He clambered upright, ducked under the boom, and hurried away.

Thomas bent over to retrieve his satchel, and in doing so spied her. He straightened slowly, his jaw taut, his eyes still dark and angry. She took another step back.

He frightened her.

In all the years of their association, in all the strained and unfortunate circumstances in which they’d met, not once had he ever truly frightened her. Not even when he’d stormed into her boudoir with Lord Tunbridge’s bloodied épée, cursing her. But now he did.

With stunning force she realized how absolutely she was under his control, followed hard by another realization: She knew next to nothing about Thomas Donne.

He was some sort of Scots-French hybrid with a minor French title who’d come to Wanton’s Blush as a gambler who didn’t game much. His sister, Favor, had arrived at Wanton’s Blush and captured the fancy of not only Fia’s father, but Fia’s younger brother, Raine, who’d escaped from a French prison and returned to the island unbeknownst to anybody but Gunna and Fia herself.

Raine and Favor had disappeared from Wanton’s Blush the night it had burned down. They had married soon after. Favor had never mentioned Thomas in her letters, and neither had Raine or Ashton.

For the first time, she wondered at the wisdom of her game. She’d allowed herself to be kidnapped because she had assumed she knew what Thomas was capable of and had taken for granted that she would be capable of more. Judging from her lineage and her history, Fia had always supposed herself to be the most ruthless person in any given situation. Certainly the most dangerous.

It had been a source of, if not exactly comfort for her, at least liberation. If she was indeed the most ruthless type society had to offer, at least she knew the limits of what she was likely to encounter. But looking at Thomas’s dark, hard face she found she could not gauge the depth of his anger, or say with any certainty what he would do. He’d looked near enough to killing that sailor—all because the poor sot had dropped her trunk overboard.

As if against his will, Thomas spoke. “I am the master of this ship. I am the absolute law here. And there.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the land. “I make the rules and I enforce them. However I see fit.”

Her mouth was dry.

“Goddamn it! Don’t look at me like that. Just do as I say and you’ll …”

“Not end up with my neck broken?” she suggested, the bravado she’d hoped for not quite reaching her voice.

His eyes went from burning hot to glacial cold in the space of a second. “Aye. I just might spare you.
Might
. Now, come here. I’ll lower you into the boat.”

She forced herself to move to his side. He dipped, snaring her behind the knees and shoulder, and lifted her easily into his arms.

Holding her high against his chest, he strode with her to the side of the ship and barked an order for a sailor to make a harness from a thick rope secured to one of the riggings.

She could not pull her gaze away from his profile while they waited. His eyes were not gray as she’d thought, but palest blue, flecked with green-gray shards as dark as the island’s shale.

His arms tightened around her. “Hurry!” he shouted.

One of his men held out the rope sling he’d completed and Thomas set her in it. “Hold on to the rope,” he told her. “I’ll be below.”

He released her and she swung out over the side of the ship. She gasped. The water looked far more than a dozen feet below, its dark, unreflective surface grim and expectant. Ever since she was a little girl and her mother had plummeted to her death, she had been unable to stand on a ledge and look down. Especially on water.

She clutched the rope in a white-knuckled grip. Her pulse raced, her head buzzed. “I cannot swim,” she heard herself say.

“You will not have to,” Thomas promised. He climbed over the gunnel, and hand over hand lowered himself by a rope into the boat below, barking out an order in Portuguese.

A second later the rope holding her jerked. She plummeted a few feet and snapped to a halt, bouncing. She slammed shut her eyes, spinning wildly in the harness. At once her seasickness returned, this time coupled with fear. She would have sobbed but her throat was too dry to make any sound.

She heard Thomas bark another order. She pressed her forehead against the rope, trying desperately to concentrate on breathing, on not letting go. She had an impression of more movement and then, suddenly, miraculously, she was in his arms again, her cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat as steady as her perch had been unstable.

He sat down, keeping his arms around her and settling her in his lap. She still could not open her eyes. Fear gibbered within, taunting her with her inability to control her unreasonable dread of heights.

She felt his hand move tentatively, brushing the hair back from her face. He spoke and the boat jumped forward as the men heaved at the oars while Thomas’s fingers combed through her hair.

Long moments passed and he did not say a word and neither did she, the silence broken only by the slap of the oars against flat water. “You’re afraid of the sea.”

She considered allowing him to be mistaken, but what good would that do? Perhaps if she told him the source of her fear he might … What was she thinking? Fear had addled her brain. She told him anyway.

“Not the water. Being above the water,” she said
faintly, reluctant to pull herself from his embrace. Why, she asked herself gruffly, should she not take comfort where she could? It was scarce enough she found it at all. So she stayed, feeling like a thief, waiting for him to eject her.

He did not. “ ’Tis heights that frighten you?”

She nodded. He did not mock her. Or laugh. He said nothing. His arms continued sheltering her without any perceptible change. His heart continued beating in its steady, unbroken rhythm. His warmth seeped through the thin batiste of her gown and slowly, like a wax taper held close to a brazier, her muscles relaxed, her limbs loosened, and she felt her body grow soft and pliant against his.

So lost was she in the inexplicable pleasure of her rare quiescence that it took her long minutes to realize that the tempo of his heartbeat had quickened and that the broad planes of his chest rose and fell deeply in counterpoint. She knew the reason. If only unconsciously, his hard male body reacted to the softening of her own.

She should take advantage of it. But the anger that had made her vow to bring him to his knees was nowhere in evidence and the seagulls were calling a homecoming greeting and the silky whisper of the water across on the prow charmed the energy from her. And she felt safe. Truly safe.

For the first time in her adult life, Fia fell asleep in a man’s arms.

*   *   *

He ached with wanting her.

She curled in his lap like an exhausted kitten. Her hair streamed over her shoulders and across her face. Her lips had parted and her breath stirred a few witchy tendrils with each exhalation. The long black lashes that made wicked her blue eyes now lay harmlessly on the upper curve of her pale cheek, a few tiny diadems of mist caught at their very tips.

One of her hands curled slightly beneath her chin, the other she’d tucked around his torso when a deep swell had wobbled the boat. Even through the linen fabric, he could feel each finger’s imprint like a brand on his ribs, just as he could feel the svelte length of her thighs draped across his lap and the soft swell of her buttocks.

He lifted his gaze away from her, peering desperately through the thick blanket of fog for their mooring place. It had to be close. Pray God, it was close. He did not think he could take much more of Fia, so seemingly lost and exhausted and in need of protection, molded to him like this.

“Land ahead, Captain,” Javiero called out.

Fia stirred and he silently cursed his crewman for waking her, fully cognizant that seconds before he’d been praying for deliverance from the sweet torment of holding her. But he did not want to relinquish her, either to wakefulness or to the land.

Her eyes opened, glittering with awareness. Of course, Fia Merrick would never wake slowly, yielding to conscious thought by degrees. She would
come instantly alert from sleep’s deepest abyss. Because—his brow furrowed with inspiration as he studied the brilliant blue eyes gazing with such penetrating solemnity into his own—to do less could be dangerous.

Chapter 15

F
ia awakened to find Thomas studying her. She struggled upright and he immediately shifted her onto the hard bench beside him. One of the sailors said something and Thomas replied by swinging his legs over the side of the boat and dropping down into chest-deep water.

“¿Es mucho frío, sí?”
one of the Spanish sailors asked.

“Not nearly cold enough,” Thomas replied in Spanish. The crewman laughed, casting her surreptitious glances.

“What did you say?” Fia demanded.

“I said the water was very cold.”

He was lying. She could tell by the aggressive way he met her gaze. However, there was nothing she could do to force him to tell her the truth, and from
the way the men were smiling at her, she did not know if she wanted to hear it. She was well used to the vulgar banter that followed her, and while she accepted that in London such banter was only what she could expect, given her provocative behavior, here she’d done nothing to deserve it.

Another sailor joined Thomas in the water. Together they grabbed hold of long ropes attached to either side of the boat and began swimming toward shore. When they were halfway to the beach they stood up, planted their feet, and hauled the boat toward the shore as those men remaining in the boat strained at the oars, rowing against the surf. Once past the breakline, the rest of the men jumped out and pulled the heavy boat up on the beach.

“Hail to ye!” a booming Scottish voice called out as a giant of a man strode from between a pair of boulders. He led a shaggy horse drawing an ancient cart. An outlawed tartan was belted about his thick waist and draped over a loose, rough-looking shirt of dubious color.

Fia looked about. They were on a thin crescent of sand at the base of sheer cliffs. The giant boulders strewn at the water’s edge had kept the beach from being visible from the sea. A perfect smuggler’s landing, and the man leading the horse fit the role perfectly. He also looked vaguely familiar.

“Jamie!” Thomas shouted, pleasure in his voice and the wide grin that carved deep dimples beneath his cheekbones.

The giant approached and dropped to one knee
before Thomas. A scraggly tail of reddish hair flecked with gray fell across his sunburned neck. He grabbed hold of one of Thomas’s hands and brought it to his forehead. Even from a distance of some ten paces she could smell him. Her nose wrinkled.

“M’lord,” he murmured, “ye’ve been gone too long. Welcome home to ye.”

Thomas laughed, the sound rich and infectious. “Ach! If my absence teaches a heathen brute like you humility, I’ll be chartin’ a course round the Cape to finish yer domestication.”

Fia watched Thomas in surprise. The burr was strong and musical and easy on his tongue. She’d known Thomas was part Scot but had never heard him speak with the Highland accent. It sounded natural, as natural as the smile still gracing his face.

“Yer the sorriest excuse fer a lord I’ve ever known, ye young rakehell,” Jamie said, “but if ye’ve no regard fer yer proper station, I have. Ye’ll not stop me from payin’ me respects to me la—”

Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as Thomas placed his boot on the huge man’s shoulder and pushed him back. With an “uff” of surprise Jamie landed on his bum and then with a roar surged upright, overshadowing even Thomas’s tall figure. “Tommy, yer not so big tha’ I can’t be teachin’ ye to respect yer elders!”

A great grin cleaved Thomas’s face. “Try me, ye great unwashed goat.”

The sailors, alert to the promise of a fight, gathered in a loose circle. The anger in the giant’s ruddy face
abruptly vanished, leaving a delighted anticipation matched only by Thomas’s own. Thoughtfully he rubbed his chin.

“Two falls out of three? Both shoulders to the ground?”

Fia stared at this Jamie’s huge, beefy hands and thick, meaty calves. He’d kill Thomas.

“Sounds fine to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound fine to me.” Dear Lord, had that been her speaking?

Both men turned to her wearing identical expressions of amazement, as though the boat had expressed an opinion.

“Who’s the lassie?” Jamie’s eyes grew round. “Mother of Mercy, dinna say ye’ve taken a bride! Lord love ye, son, we’ve waited fer this day—”

“No,” Thomas snapped. “She’s not my bride. She’s—”

“His prisoner,” Fia supplied matter-of-factly. She ran through her mind how she could use this situation to her advantage—and Thomas’s disadvantage. Apparently this mountain of unclean manhood held Thomas in some regard.