Page 21

W eary from having spent a full day on deck, Rose entered the cabin and came to an abrupt halt. Sebastien Fonteyne was sitting behind his desk studying one of the charts she had been marking calculations on before she went up on deck.

“Shall I assume you are feeling better?”

He looked up. The bandaging was off and his hair was loose. The bruising had spread across his brow and under his eyes, turning the skin a mottled black and blue almost to his chin.

“Much better, thank you.”

“Good. Then there should be no reason why you cannot remove yourself to another cabin.”

“I am rather fond of this one.”

“So am I. It’s much bigger than the one on the Cygnet . Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to enjoy the luxury of the extra space because I was advised against moving you in your … enfeebled state.”

“You were not in a much better state, madam. I woke a time or two and saw you curled up on the floor like a kitten.”

“Graciousof you to offer up the berth.”

“I confess I did give a thought to sharing. But with the laudanum clouding my thoughts I could not guarantee my behavior having a soft body in bed with me. I have, however, restored myself with rum. Would you care to join me for a dram?”

Rose was not in the mood to play at a game of words and wits.

She tossed her hat on the long dining table and unfastened the lacing down the front of her waistcoat as she crossed the cabin to the washstand.

She poured water out of a jug into the thick porcelain basin and rinsed her face and hands, then ran a square of dampened linen across the back of her neck.

“Long day?”

“Long and hot and … long,” she said.

“And my ship? I understand you were able to seat a new mainmast?”

“Two days ago, your own carpenters insisted on making the repair. If you trust them to have done so correctly, then the mast is anchored soundly.”

She heard what might have been a growl, but when she looked back, he had changed positions and was now seated at the table helping himself to a biscuit from the tray one of the lads had brought in from the galley.

Rose’s stomach rumbled and as she walked past, she grabbed the last two biscuits as well as a fat wedge of yellow cheese.

He had filled a second glass with rum and set it on the desk.

Rose chose not to acknowledge the courtesy as such.

She took a seat in the big chair and savoured a long slow swallow of rum.

It took a second and third swallow for the effect to reach her belly and when it did so, when her fingers and toes felt the restorative tingle, she leaned back, took a bite of biscuit, and studied Sebastien Fonteyne as she chewed.

“Better?” he asked.

“It will be.”

He glanced down at the rolls of paper on the desk. “Those are damned fine sea charts, by the way. The details are rather … astonishing.”

“I had them brought over from the Cygnet . My family takes great pride in having damned fine charts.”

“Lafitte has a framed copy of one drawn by Le Cygnet Noir , an ancestor of yours, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Isabeau Dante. My great-great-great-possibly more greats-grandmother. It might interest you to know that her daughter, Juliet, also captained her own ship, the Iron Rose. ”

“So the sea truly is in your blood,” he said quietly.

“Saltwater runs through my blood, bone, muscle, and sinew, sir. Did you think I was playing at this on a whim?”

“I confess it may have been my initial thought,” he admitted. “Lafitte’s as well. But no one who could run the blockade three times without taking any damage could hardly be accused of playing at it.”

There was an odd note in his voice, and Rose smiled. “But they could be suspected of having too easy a time of it by working with or for the British.”

He swirled the rum around his glass, watching the lamplight dance in the tawny liquid. “The notion did occur.”

“Well, at least you’re honest. Although Lafitte seemed more inclined to believe I should be working in his brothel.”

A smile slowly overcame Fonteyne’s stern expression. “I doubt I will ever forget the look on his face when he realized you had stolen the Pride out from under his nose. He actually turned purple and hopped up and down.”

“I expect it was much like the expression on your face when you realized we had taken the Black Wind without firing a single shot.”

His eyes narrowed and his smile turned a little brittle. “I was extremely angry.”

“Was? Meaning you are not angry anymore?”

“Oh, I am still angry. Very much so. And while it is not in my nature to compliment someone for humiliating me and my crew?—"

“That was not my intent.”

“Yes, it was. It was revenge for having to suffer the humiliation of marrying some spindle-legged lout as a consequence for the night we spent together in Port Louis.”

She opened her mouth to object but closed it again without a sound.

“Before you interrupted,” he continued, “I was about to say I knew of no other man who would have had the courage or, indeed, the ballocks to execute such a perfect attack. Not one damned shot, indeed. I’ll not live that one down so long as I draw breath.”

She studied his face, looking for the trap. “Since it is not in your nature to give out compliments, I assume there is another reason for such largesse.”

“Can it not simply be a tribute from one captain to another?”

“No.”

He tipped his head back and laughed. “Your bluntness is refreshing. In truth, however, I have no hidden motive unless, of course, you count my own brashness in admitting my desire to take you back to bed … where together we might find more reasons to lavish each other with compliments.”

“Might I ask how were you going to persuade me to lose all grasp on my sensibilities?”

“The same way I did five years ago: by kissing you until you had no further need of sensibility.”

She released a small puff of breath. “I see. Is this your idea of a seduction? Has it worked on many in the past?”

“Come now, Rose.” He smiled in a way that would have loosened an old maid’s drawers.

“Our way of life is too short to waste on picking flowers and enduring endless days of coy flirtation. We live day to day, sometimes hour to hour, never knowing what the next will bring. At some point, every damn thing we have done was exactly what we wanted to do at that moment.”

She mirrored his crooked smile. “Captain Fonteyne, at this moment, as impossible as it may seem that I could refuse such an ardent invitation so full of charm and profound insight, I do wish to go to bed. But I wish to do so alone . I would be grateful, therefore, if you could remove yourself to another cabin and find yourself another pillow on which to lay your head.”

His eyes glittered above his smile, and she had the unnerving feeling he could see clear through her bravado to the wildly beating heart of that same seventeen-year-old who had melted in his arms and discovered pure passion.

In the end, however, he pushed to his feet and tugged politely on a wavy black forelock. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Hope springs eternal,” she quoted. “Goodnight, Captain. Do try not to fall down any stairs tonight.”

Fonteyne commandeered the quartermaster’s cabin, a mere five paces away, and shut the door behind him.

The girl had nerve, that was for sure. He hadn’t expected her to tumble into bed with him at the crook of his finger …

although it happened more times than he cared to recount with most of the women he encountered.

Old, young, fat, thin, married or not, they lifted their skirts and opened their thighs and welcomed him into their arms with grasping hands and eager sighs.

At the same time, he hadn’t expected her to brush him away like an annoying fly.

Most of the cabins in the stern had the berths suspended over cannon.

In battle, the berth could be raised and hooked to the wall and the gun pushed through the port.

He tugged on the rope now to open the gun port a few inches, letting the cool night air rush into the cramped space.

He lit the stub of a candle and set it on an iron sconce bolted to the wall.

The light it gave off was weak and flickering.

“Try not to fall down,” he muttered, swearing as he stubbed his toe against a wooden post supporting the berth. He sat on the edge and raked his fingers through his hair.

Rose’s face came to him in the shadows … those big, lovely eyes looking up at him, her hair spread across the bedding like red flames. The sound of the water creaming off the hull seemed to echo the whispered confession that she had been a virgin ….

He shook his head and growled inwardly. No regrets?

Who was he kidding? He had regretted leaving her naked and sprawled out on the bed of discarded clothing, the faint dawn light washing over her body.

He had gone to the window to clear his head and contemplate what he might say, what he could say when she awakened.

But he had seen the H.M.S. Savoy gliding out of the harbor with his seized men on board, and in that precise moment it had been the right thing to do to leave Rose St. Clare and go after his men.

In the days, weeks, months that followed, he had convinced himself there had been no other choice to make. If he had stayed … what then? Even if he had gone back … what would he have done? Marry her? Not likely. He valued his freedom far too much to anchor himself to a wife.

But he did have a conscience, despite what she thought. Hearing that she had been forced into a marriage with Terrence Whitticomb had left him with a sour taste in his mouth. As sour as his mood had been since she had walked into the tavern