Page 18

D ante de Tourville slept, unmoving, for almost seventy-two hours.

He slept through a heavy squall, replete with thunder and lightning.

He slept through the crash of several dozen tin plates that flew out of Cook’s arms when he was startled by the sight of Clarence the cat leaping out at him from a dark corner of the passageway just outside the door of the cabin.

What finally brought Dante awake, and grudgingly so, was the soft sound of a footstep moving stealthily across the cabin floor.

That and the aromatic vapors rising off a platter laden with hot broth, a large slab of boiled fish, and the ship’s staple, beans and rice.

The finely chiseled nostrils flared and the long black lashes shivered open.

He suffered a few moments of disorientation before he remembered where he was, that he was not just imagining a real berth beneath him and a cabin not smashed to utter chaos around him.

He judged it to be sometime in the late afternoon, for the room was flooded with harsh beams of sunlight.

The gallery windows were mullioned, each palm-sized diamond framed in lead and flaring with points of brilliant light that seared the back of Dante’s eyeballs like burning sulphur.

He closed them almost immediately, not all the way, allowing himself a narrow slit through which to see who or what had disturbed him.

It was a who and he had to blink again, not believing what his eyes were seeing.

It was the girl, standing at the chart table, frowning over some calculations while she casually munched on portions of the meal intended for the occupant of the cabin.

In her other hand she held a square of rough toweling that she was using to dry her newly washed hair.

Dante did not move or do anything to betray the fact he was awake.

Instead, he took the opportunity to study Beau Spence while her guard was down.

Her hair was longer than the braid implied.

Full and thick with natural waves, it spread in a dark auburn mass halfway down her back.

With the light pouring through the windows behind her, the driest curls glistened with threads of gold and red, forming a soft halo around her head.

Her face was dominated by the large, expressive eyes and a mouth that never should have known a coarse phrase or a sullen scowl.

The light was also strong enough to betray the slender body beneath the oversized shirt and breeches.

Some vague memory of feeling one of those pert breasts pillowed against his mouth brought a crooked smile to his lips and a faint surge of hot blood through his veins.

She glanced up from the chart table and Dante closed his eyes. He was at a distinct disadvantage with the light blinding him. He also had a wad of blankets tangled around his ankles—the only part of him not naked and open to full disclosure.

“So, Captain Dante, your man did not take me at my word,” she murmured, advancing slowly toward the bed. “ You loll about for three days in my cabin, in my bed, and no one thought to delouse you.”

She wiped the crumbs and grease off her hand and tossed the toweling aside. Passing by the desk, she picked up the stiletto she had given to Pitt, along with the oblong whetstone, and began slowly honing the edge of the blade to razor sharpness.

Dante saw the blot of her shadow crowding over him and it took a commendable effort on his part not to open his eyes or visibly brace himself for what might come next.

He recalled Pitt’s words, that he might prefer to slit his own throat than tempt someone else to do it.

Beau Spence would be the last one he would trust his jugular to, but he forced his breathing to remain slow and shallow, forced his hands to remain flat on his belly and not clenched by his sides.

At the same time the soft drift of freshly washed hair piqued his senses.

Because he dared not open his eyes, he was left staring inwardly at the unwanted picture that had impressed itself on his brain the first day—the one of her lying naked across the top of his desk, her hair spread in glossy disarray beneath them, her body arching to receive him, her amber eyes full of flame and fire, heavy lidded with passion.

The sound of the knife scraping over the whetstone rescued him from the dangerous abyss of his imagination and he risked opening one eye a sliver.

She was just standing there, her hand moving by rote to sharpen the already wickedly keen edge of the blade while her gaze roved freely over the immodest sprawl of his body.

Dante was not particularly vain about the breadth of his shoulders or the well-thewed musculature of his arms and legs; the sea was a demanding mistress, tolerating neither fools nor weaklings lightly.

His lack of vanity did not necessarily include other parts of his anatomy, which he knew to be as formidable in size and substance as the rest of him, and it amused him to think of the little pirate wench fainting into a heap by the bed.

The grinding stopped and Dante saw Beau drag her eyes up to her own arm, where she tested the keenness of the blade’s edge on a patch of her own fine hairs. Far from fainting, she set the whetstone aside and advanced toward the bed again, her brow creased in a frown of concentration.

She leaned forward and Dante tensed his muscles as he felt the edge of the knife press beneath the crest of his cheekbone. A slow, steady descent scraped a clean path through the heavy black bearding, a second widened the path to his ear.

She stopped to clean the blade just as one silvery-blue eye slitted open. “I trust you are not just throwing that on the floor. I have been given quite specific orders not to make a mess in here.”

Beau nearly dropped the knife as she jerked back. “Christ Jesus! How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough,” he answered vaguely, and lifted a hand to wipe a smear of grease off her chin. “Did you enjoy my meal?”

She drew further back, out of reach of his long arm. “It is a crime to let good food go to waste. You have already slept your way through enough meals to fatten ten men.”

Dante pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Did I hear you say I have been asleep for three days?”

“Two full days and an hour or so shy of the third,” she obliged, glancing out the windows. “The sun is almost touching the horizon now.”

“Three days,” he muttered, massaging his temple with a thumb and forefinger. “ Merde ! My head feels as if it has a thousand drummers inside.”

“No small surprise, considering what you drank as your last meal.”

He glared up at her. “How are the rest of my men?”

“They are well-fed and well-rested.”

“And Lucifer? He has not killed anyone yet?”

“Is he likely to do so?”

“His moods can be … somewhat unpredictable.”

“Between being with Mister Pitt during the day and sleeping across your door at night, he seems to be well-enough behaved. He does not talk much, does he?”

“He does not talk at all since the Spaniards cut out his tongue.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then down onto the cleanly shaved stripe on his jaw. “Did it not occur to you to ask if I wanted a bare chin?”

“If you didn’t, you should have scrubbed out the vermin before you collapsed in my bed.”

He grinned carelessly. “Since you started the job, would you care to finish it?”

She glanced sidelong at the faint stirring in his groin. “No, thank you. You appear to be enjoying the attention too much.”

Still grinning, he reached down and drew the blankets up over his hips. “Forgive me if I have insulted your sensibilities.”

Bright tiger eyes flickered back to his face and he had to admit she was a lovely creature with her hair curling damply around her face and her cheeks dusted a soft pink.

“Do not flatter yourself into thinking you have anything I have not seen a hundred times before.”

“Flattery was the last thing on my mind,” he assured her.

“Oh? Dare I guess what was the first? ”

“It would probably disappoint you to know it was food. And a stoup of water to remove the dry rot from my throat.”

“Cook sent ale.”

“I would prefer water … if you wouldn’t mind.”

She released another huff of exasperation and went out into the corridor, returning a few moments later with a wooden ladle brimming with water.

Dante was sitting on the edge of the bed, his long legs hanging over the side, the blanket draped across his loins. He accepted the ladle graciously and drained it in a few deep swallows, savoring the coolness and the taste despite the fact it bore the woody taint of oak from the barrel.

Beau watched him drink, watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

Her gaze drifted down to the broad, well-muscled shoulders and arms, then across the luxuriant mat of hair that covered his chest. She skipped deliberately over the area covered by the blanket, although what lay concealed beneath was warmly impressed on her mind.

“Cook has changed the bandages on your leg twice. The wound seems to be healing well.”

Dante glanced at his calf and gave his foot and ankle a turn. “Aye, it feels markedly better. I thank you.”

Casually awarded, his gratitude deepened the stain in her cheeks.

She cleared her throat. “The captain will want to know you are awake; I should go and find him.”

“Wait,” Dante said sharply, putting aside the ladle. She reacted warily to the tone of command in his voice, and remembering Pitt’s suggestion, he softened his expression and attempted a look of disarming humility.

“I know we started out on the wrong footing,” he said, “but you must understand I was at the point of desperation and not in possession of my full senses. ”

Beau narrowed her eyes, thinking he looked like Clarence the cat after he had been caught stealing fish off the cook’s plate.

“My only thought at the time was for the safety of my men and for salvaging what we could from the Virago”