Jennifer Horseman (17 page)

She had read of a Captain Black Garrett and his famous crew and ship time and again, how they sailed the Mediterranean waters to the dark continent with the sole intent of terrorizing British military ships—how, she remembered reading once, they were responsible for the destruction of two men-of-war as well as of countless British trade vessels—all of it said to be a favor to Napoleon. She once read Admiral Nelson's rather lengthy public explanation of why Black Garrett's ships alone—by luck and magic—kept managing to slip through the British blockade of French naval forces at Toulon to freely sail the Mediterranean waters. She remembered a brief article that linked Garrett's name with the American president Jefferson and the statesman Franklin, an association that cast considerable doubt on the integrity of those two men, suggesting it was Garrett who had convinced Napoleon to accept the American offer to buy the Louisiana territories, thereby giving Napoleon the monies for his campaign against England and the rest of the civilized world. This alone made Garrett one of England's greatest enemies of state.

The idea that she sat in the company of the famous pirate Black Garrett was impossible, of course. It simply could not be so, she assured herself at once. True, these last years had been a nightmare, filled with pain and fear and torments, and true, while her uncle had at last been put to rest, her circumstances had little improved—one might reasonably argue her circumstances had worsened—but throughout it all God gave her the unwavering faith in an ultimate triumph over adversity. So she knew one thing and one thing only: as cruel as fate was, life could not be so terrible as to make the man sitting there the infamous Black Garrett.

Then why was her heart pounding, her pulse racing, and her breaths quickening? She nervously broke eye contact, wiping the small beads of moisture lining her brow.

"Garrett," Gayle's voice came with urgency. "You are scaring her more. Tell her—"

"Tell her what, Gayle?" Garrett leaned back, addressing Juliet with his eyes if not his words. "That I am not who she supposes I am? Or that I am not as terrible as my reputation would have me be, that reputations are things of lies, built on inference, hearsay, rumors, things having little to do with facts; that my reputation is no different except that it was built carefully to shadow the truth? Tell her again that I wont hurt her? Tell her what, Gayle? Do you imagine anything I could possibly say now will soften the light of fear in those eyes?"

Fear turned to fury, and before Garrett drew his next breath she lost what little control she had left. "Oh how I hate your clever way with words! I used to be able to read the news from London, and if only a fraction of what I read was truth, a fraction, then nothing can ease my fear unless you tell me it's not true, that you are not that notorious man. And if you do I will believe you. I will believe you because it's too terrible to believe otherwise. Because I can not ... I simply can not believe this is happening to me."

Silence came as a collective answer and Juliet rose slowly from the table, shaking her head as she looked to each face, seeing them in this changed light. She backed slowly away from the table. Leif cursed softly as Gayle's look still implored Garrett to say something more. Yet Garrett was right: words would not carry her from the shock of her discovery.

Garrett chuckled when she looked at the door. "You won't get far, love. And believe me, I've no desire to rescue you from the sea. Rest easy, I will quit your company for your comfort. Gayle, fix the telescope. Unlike words, the planets have never failed me."

Gayle rose angrily to do his bidding.

"Garrett, you are in trouble," Leif told him, watching as her small fists clenched as if in preparation for a fight. "You have noticed that hair of hers?"

"Often."

"I know it well. The red-haired descendants of Mars and Hera, it marks my whole family: the joining of passion and fury, suppressed in the young lady by a sadistic hand, but only for the while—"

"Destined to emerge again to bring me trouble, I know Leif. My anticipation of it makes me come again to the one thing not woven into my destiny."

"Ah, I can guess what this is," Leif grinned. "Besides failure and the God-given humility that comes with it, it must be boredom. You shall never know a day of it, and Garrett, my dearest friend," he laughed, "I envy you that."

Long after midnight, Garrett quietly opened the door. He pushed his long fingers through windblown hair and stood in the doorway as he searched the space to find her. A single lamp shone over the couch where she slept at last. Shutting the door without a sound, he stepped soundlessly to the spot and for a long while he stared down at a beauty more compelling than the very light of eternity.

Thin arms cradled her head. The long ropes of her hair curled on her lap. A troubled look marked her face even in sleep. Kneeling before her, he remembered the feel of soft curves beneath him, curves made to accommodate a man's desire, and how her eyes changed with passion. For the space of a night, she had been his.

He gently traced a finger along the line of her lips, remembering all too well a taste sweeter than spun sugar, more potent than wine. He was in trouble, indeed. Never had he had to exercise restraint with women, any woman, and considering the force of his desire, the lesson would be hard won indeed.

He struggled with his passion as he gently took her slippers from her feet, then with more trouble, her stockings. He lifted her, leaning her against his chest to get at the buttons of her dress. Like a child, she did not stir. He untied the bow, noticing, not for the first time, the girlish modesty of this dress, an unnecessary reminder of her innocence and age. The buttons came off easily. He pulled the dress off her shoulders to her waist, an unveiling that made his breath catch. The rounded fullness of her breasts pressed against the thin fabric of her chemise, temptations all the more pronounced considering her contrasting slenderness.

The dress dropped to the floor as he lifted her to his arms to take her to the bed. He smiled when she did not wake as he gently laid her there. Managing to control the monster of his desire only with thoughts of her extreme vulnerability, he lay down beside her. A miracle. Careful not to wake her, he took her small hand in his and brought it to his heart, his mind filling with images of her: this hand, the fear that could change the shape of those eyes, and Leifs words: "And, Garrett, you don't know what longing is until you've seen her sitting at the window staring off at the distant horizon to a place where she dreamed she'd be safe."

The unpleasant thought echoed round and round in his mind until, against his better judgement, he reached over and shifted, pulling her small form protectively into his arms. She nestled against him. He smiled tenderly as through the soft light he stared at her upturned face. As if she knew she had finally arrived. If only in the dark edge of night where dreams can not lie, she knew at last she was safe. . . .

Morning light filtered into the room and Juliet stirred, toasty warm and aware before anything else of a most pleasant scent. Rich spices, the sea, and him—

Him?! Garrett! She opened her eyes, prepared to be shocked. She laid full against his hard warm body, cradled in his arm, her arm resting over his chest. She froze, just froze, her body moving from the ignorant bliss of sleep to sheer panic in the space of a moment. Stopping the cry of alarm in her throat, she carefully withdrew to sit up. He still slept, and she stared at him accusingly, maddened by the way even sleep loved his face. Bronze against the white sheets, he looked recklessly handsome: the carved muscles of his arms and bare chest, the dark tufts of hair, everything so blatantly masculine. The growth of his beard and the licks of dark curls over his forehead only enhanced the impression of strength carved into the handsome features. With his head resting in raised arms he looked as if he had not a care in the world. She half expected him to start whistling a happy tune.

How, dear God, had he taken her clothes off while she slept?

She pulled the thin sheet over herself, inadvertently exposing his virile form to her startled gaze. She gasped upon encountering the shocking sight of his nakedness. She remembered seeing it, him, that . . . part, and being terrified, as she placed the sight against the memory of the few other times she had seen naked men. In truth, she had never seen a real man, only Greek statues in parks and paintings in museums; there the phallus had looked so small, flaccid, harmless really, the absolute opposite of his. She had wanted to ask if he was normal, if lust made all men so enormous, harder than the flex of a muscle, and if it was lust that changes its shape, then why, oh God, why did he get like that as he slept? Her hand flew to her mouth and her face reddened more as the answer came to her. He had unchaste dreams! Twas too terrible, even his dreams were unchaste-She came off the bed dragging the sheet with her. She looked around for her clothes. Her slippers and stockings lay on the couch where she had fallen asleep. She searched the space of his quarters, her eyes on the floor. Would he have been wicked enough to take off her clothes, leaving her in this immodest state, but then hang up her dress to prevent wrinkles?

An examination of the dressing room said no. He was simply wicked. Then where was her dress? She looked over to where he slept, unable to encounter the sight without blushing more. Could he have taken her dress to keep her naked? To keep lust in his loins?

A hundred terrifying questions came to her mind. He had promised not to hurt her more and she wanted to believe him; despite his name and his infamous history, she wanted desperately to believe that. Yet even if that were true, did it include rape? Did he know how badly that hurt? Even if he did, could he control himself when his ... his phallus filled so?

She didn't know, but the odds seemed astronomically against her. The thought of her shame in front of his men stopped her from running outside. What if they were all like him? "Are you innocent enough to imagine you'd rather sleep with a group of men? I trust my men with my life, you are another matter entirely. ..." Dear God, what could she do?

Garrett's dreams filled with visions of her. Dreams of large, dark blue eyes shining with the light of a summer's day, hair the color of sun-washed sable, falling in streams to cover the beauty of her unclad state, and in his dream she was laughing, laughing until he stopped it to taste the honeyed nectar of her lips and to part her slender thighs. . . .

The dream faded, and Garrett awoke. He opened his eyes to see first the empty bed at his side, then he turned, only to encounter a sight he would never—as long as he lived and as short as that might be—stray far from his memory.

Juliet sat in a chair arranged a safe six or so paces away. Upon seeing him wake, she pulled herself erect, lifting the sheet over herself, and with considerable difficulty leveled his long-barreled, ivory-handled pistol at his head. An alarming look of determination was in the bright pools of her eyes and he started praying for the fortitude not to laugh at her.

He would not laugh at her, he would not, he said over and over again as he bit the inside of his mouth hard, laying back to ask the pressing question: "Do we have an agenda, love? Or will you just shoot me as I lie?"

She lifted her chin, determined not to let his calmness disarm her. It had to be pretense, a show of bravado meant to intimidate and weaken her resolve. She'd not let him. As for his question, she had thought about it for the better part of an hour now, but—"I'm not certain" -she confessed in a voice strained and weak from the desperation of this measure, a voice that affected him as a grip tightening on his heart. "I can't decide . . . exactly. I think I should shoot your-that you probably deserve it—but that's not what I want, what I really want. I want you to turn the ship around to take me back. Will you do that?"

She could not account for the way his expression changed upon hearing this. Not knowing what to make of it, she tightened her grip just in case.

"Well, I see you need some ... ah, help with this threat. First, if you plan to shoot me, raise the pistol a good inch higher. It shoots low, you see. You don't want to miss, do you? It would be bad enough to have my blood and flesh splattered against the wall but you can believe I don't want to linger to see it." He watched the change in her expression, and with fear laid over the weight of the pistol in her hand, she started to tremble. "And may I suggest you rephrase your question into a demand? Not that it really matters, for of course I can't do that."

"Why not?" The desperate cry came in a whisper. "If I keep this pistol aimed at you—"

"My crew, for one thing. They object to being forced to do anything. Hell, I practically have to take a vote on each and every order I give. You can imagine how uncooperative they'd be if they knew you were forcing me to give that order, even more if they knew you had shot me. Besides, love, I'd probably only pretend to give the orders while I waited until you had to eat or use a chamber pot or simply fall asleep. You can see the difficulties. Insurmountable, if you think about it."

As he suggested, she raised the pistol an inch. Her hands still trembled and defeat appeared in her eyes, contradicting the measure. "Don't think I won't, Garrett. I want to ... I do."

"I believe you, love."

The whispered confession came on the heels of a pause. "I don't know what else to do. . . ."

"Are you asking me for alternatives to shooting me? Well, love, I'm still at your mercy." With emotion underlying a shift to honesty he said, "I'll give you anything I can."

The promise raised her chin with renewed determination. "I ... I want you to stop that."

"Stop what, love?" With confusion he followed her anxious gaze to the point of her alarm, startling her when he lost his resolve and started laughing. For too long he could not stop. Furious now, not knowing why, she tightened her hold on the pistol. "I see it alarms you, too. Look, Juliet," he tried to stop laughing long enough to explain, "I'm afraid there is only one way to stop . . . ah, 'it,' and for starters, it would take at least a day and a night and then, no doubt, 'it' would be, ah, harder to get rid of each time thereafter."