Taming Charlotte (34 page)

“Please put your arms down,” he snapped, “you’re driving me insane!”

She paused for a long, deliciously defiant moment before granting his request, then placed her hands on her hips. “My, but you
are
in a fragile state of mind this day, Captain,” she mocked.

He struggled visibly for control of his temper, then grated out, “Any woman can do what you did. Remember that.”

Charlotte stood still as a post, though she wanted with all her heart to fling herself onto his bed like a wild beast and claw him to ribbons. “And any man can do what
you
did,” she responded evenly.
“Remember that. “

A crimson flush rose in Patrick’s neck. “Fair enough,” he said, but grudgingly and after a long, charged silence.

Charlotte sat on the end of the mattress, making a great show of arranging her skirts just so. “I met Nora Ruffin yesterday,” she said conversationally, watching him through lowered lashes.

Patrick closed his eyes, as if to fling up a barrier between himself and Charlotte, and that was when she knew she had him by the proverbial short hairs. “Is she well?” he asked.

Not for a million tropical islands or a million ships like the
Enchantress,
all her own, would Charlotte have let him know how that simple question injured her. “Yes,” she said. “And so are Stella and Jayne and Deborah. They’re looking after the men who fell ill on shipboard.”

Patrick sighed, met Charlotte’s unflinching gaze. “I suppose you have questions about Nora and the others.”

Charlotte was surprised by his readiness to speak of so inflammatory a subject, but she didn’t let that show. “It would seem that Khalif is not the only one to keep a harem,” she said moderately.

He rolled his magnificent eyes. “Would that it were so,” he said, moments later, with a twinkle of amusement. “Nora, Stella, Jayne, and Deborah are my wards.”

Charlotte lowered her head, lest Patrick catch a glimpse of the disbelieving relief she felt. “Oh?” she asked, plucking at the fabric of her skirts.

“They came into my care in various ways,” Patrick explained wearily. “Nora’s father sailed with me, and died of gangrene after a leg injury in Fiji. Deborah and Jayne are sisters, alone in the world except for each other, and I bought them from a pirate I met two years ago, in Riz. As for Stella, well, she was left here by her father, a sailing man of my acquaintance, who never bothered to come back for her.”

At last Charlotte looked up. She knew Patrick would not have embroidered the truth with pretty stitches to spare her feelings; he obviously didn’t believe he owed her that much consideration.

“You don’t have a mistress on the island then?” she asked bravely.

“I didn’t say that,” Patrick replied, with brutal frankness.

Before she could weigh the wisdom of the action, Charlotte had risen to her feet. “You keep a woman here?”

He studied the ceiling. “Suppose I do,” he countered.

Again Charlotte was moved to violence, but by supreme effort, she forestalled the compulsion. She did not move, except to raise her chin a notch. “Suppose
this,”
she answered coolly. “If you betray my trust, Mr. Trevarren, Rashad will not be the only eunuch in my circle of friends.”

Patrick startled her with a burst of hoarse laughter. “Ah, Charlotte, Charlotte. You vex me to my limits at times, but no one could ever describe you as dull.”

She was in no frame of mind to appreciate humor. “You once promised me fidelity,” she said evenly.

“That,” he answered with a sigh, “was when we were still married.”

Charlotte’s exasperation was overwhelming. “Yes, I remember. It was also while we were married that you fathered this baby I’m carrying.”

To his credit, Patrick looked chagrined. “I keep forgetting about that.”

“I’ve noticed,” Charlotte rejoined tartly.

He leaned forward, frowning. “Exactly what do you want from me?” he demanded. “Unflagging faithfulness? Fine. As long as we’re together, sharing a bed, you’ll have that.”

“And after you deposit me in Quade’s Harbor?”

“Don’t be naive,” was the succinct reply. “Do you really expect me to be celibate for the rest of my life?”

Yes,
Charlotte thought miserably. “Of course not,” she said aloud. “Nor do I intend to wither away on the vine like a spring violet on the hottest day of August, once you’ve sailed merrily over the horizon and left me on shore. For better or worse, Patrick, you’ve taught me to enjoy a man’s intimate attentions, and I will naturally want to take a lover. Don’t fret, though—I’ll be discreet.”

He reddened again, unable to hide the irritation her remarks had engendered in him. “That would hardly be proper,” he pointed out. “Do you think I want my child raised by a woman with a—a reputation?”

Charlotte smiled smugly. It was all an act, of course, but Patrick didn’t have to know that, and it was clear that he wasn’t smart enough to guess. “I don’t give a damn if it’s proper, and what you want or don’t want matters even less. I intend to be positively
notorious. “

“Charlotte!” Patrick was obviously scandalized, a fact that delighted her.

She began to sweep back and forth at the foot of his bed, a pensive expression on her face. “I don’t suppose it would be right to advertise,” she mused.

“Advertise!” Patrick gasped.
“Advertise?!”

“Oh, yes,” Charlotte replied distractedly, drumming the fingers of her right hand against her left upper arm. “I’d want a certain sort of man, handsome, discerning, but wholly devilish when it comes to pleasuring a woman—”

“Good
God,
Charlotte!” His shout fairly rattled the windows. “If you’re saying all this to raise my hackles, you’re succeeding brilliantly!”

She smiled, catlike. “Am I to understand,” she began sweetly, pausing to look straight into Patrick’s eyes, “that you are to have unlimited rights when it comes to entertaining other women in your bed, but I am expected to guard my virtue until the day I dissolve into dust?”

Patrick pondered. “Yes,” he finally said, sounding petulant, like a small boy.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Charlotte replied warmly. With that, she turned and left the room. Humming.

Patrick sent something crashing against the doorframe and bellowed something quite unintelligible.

Alone, Patrick thrust himself out of bed, too furious to languish for another moment, but still too enervated to return to his normal way of life. He swore as he made his way into the adjoining washroom and began stripping away his clothes.

He’d intended to make things easier for Charlotte—and, admittedly, for himself—by alienating her with talk of other women. He had supposed that she would weep, and be furious for a time, and then resign herself to living out her life safe in the bosom of her well-known family.

Naked, Patrick lowered himself into the tepid waters of the bathing pool. Instead of reacting the way he’d expected, Charlotte had come back at him with all that talk about taking a lover and being notorious.

He fumed as he reached for a cake of soap, squeezed too hard, and sent the bar skidding across the tiled floor. There was no denying it, Patrick thought miserably, his spectacular plan had exploded in his face like a cheap pistol, and his very bones were still quivering with the impact.

He raised himself out of the tub, retrieved the soap, and began to wash. When he was clean, and had dried himself off with a towel, Patrick dressed in fresh breeches and one of the flowing shirts he loved. He did not favor the garments because of the dashing appearance they made, but because he could move freely in them, with no sense of confinement.

He brushed his shorter hair, polished his teeth, and went back to the bedroom to pull on his favorite pair of boots. Then, with uncertain but determined steps, Patrick made his way out into the hallway.

He had to stop twice before he reached the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall and dredging strength from some well deep inside him, but finally he managed to descend to the first floor.

In his study, Patrick sank gratefully into the leather chair behind his desk and began going over the records his overseer had been keeping concerning that year’s crop of sugarcane. During that brief time of absorption, he didn’t think of his lost ship, or of Charlotte, and that was a mercy.

After a day spent exploring the island and sketching, Charlotte had dinner on the downstairs veranda, with Mr. Cochran. Following that, she sat alone in Patrick’s study, reading a spicy novel purloined from a high shelf.

It was late when she returned to Patrick’s room, and through the French doors she could see a bright, silvery moon spilling its light over dark waters.

The captain was in a quiet but nonetheless foul temper, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles she had not seen before and reading grimly from a volume of Chaucer.

At the sight of Charlotte, he slammed the book closed but made no move to rise from his chair facing the empty fireplace.

“Have you come to plague me again?” he asked.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, contained the giggle that rose in her throat, then replied, “Anyone who would read Chaucer on purpose is quite capable of plaguing themselves, without assistance from me.”

Patrick’s mouth twitched at one corner, but he was clearly not about to let humor get in the way of a good sulk. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly.
“What
are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I should think that would be obvious, even to someone as deliberately obtuse as you are. I plan to extract my rights as a wife and then get a good night’s sleep.” Sometimes Charlotte was as amazed at her audacity as anyone could have been, but she was careful to hide her personal surprise and chagrin.

“Your
rights
as a wife,” Patrick repeated, in angry marvel. “May I remind you,
Miss
Quade—” he put a purposefully unkind emphasis on the word “Miss” “—that we are no longer legally married?”

“Maybe not legally,” Charlotte agreed, “but we have a moral bond, and I’m not about to let you forget it.” All of
the sudden, she was enjoying herself. She gestured toward the bed. “Lie down, Patrick. I want you.”

She almost laughed at the crimson flush that surged into his neck and then flooded his face. He was clearly flabbergasted, and when he attempted to speak, the words were garbled.

“Very well,” she said in a light tone, turning away for a moment to hide the sparkle in her eyes. “If you won’t cooperate, then I’ll just have to take…matters…into my own hands. So to speak.”

The book clattered to the floor and at the same moment Patrick uttered a low, growling shout of amazement and fury. He approached her from behind, caught her shoulders in his hands, whirled her around to face him.

“Are you
trying
to infuriate me?” he demanded, in a stunned whisper.

“No,” she replied. She was intimidated, and that was precisely why she raised her chin and did her utmost to appear undaunted. “I’m just treating you the way men treat women every day, in every part of the world.”

Patrick looked baffled now, as well as outraged. “What has that to do with—”

“It has everything to do with what’s happening between us, Mr. Trevarren,” she interrupted. “And you know it quite well.” She found a nightgown, spread it neatly on the bed, and began unfastening the buttons of her dress. She neither showed nor felt the slightest self-consciousness as she took off her clothes. Knowing that he was completely off balance, she changed the subject. “I had a nice chat with Mr. Cochran this evening, at dinner. He says the men are all recovering nicely.”

Patrick obviously wanted to look away, and just as obviously could not make himself do any such thing. His throat worked visibly as he stared at Charlotte, and his voice came out sounding gruff. “I know that. Cochran gives me a daily report.”

Charlotte was bare of all but her good intentions by that point, and she took her time covering up. She reached for the nightgown she’d selected earlier and held it out, as if reconsidering its appeal. She felt Patrick’s gaze as surely as if
he’d been touching her, and she secretly reveled in his fascination.

“Did he tell you, then,” she began distractedly, “that barrels and lengths of rope and other such things have been washing up on the beach for the last day or so?” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Patrick stood with his arms folded, and there was an element of suppressed energy in his bearing.

“Yes,” he answered, drawing nearer now. “It would seem to indicate a ship in trouble, since none of the debris is from the
Enchantress. “

Charlotte turned and looked up into his eyes, her expression serious. “Shouldn’t someone go out there and look?”

“In what?” Patrick retorted impatiently. “A native fishing boat? We’re all stranded here, Charlotte, until another ship comes in.” He ran splayed fingers through his sleek, newly shortened hair. “It might be months or even years before we lay eyes on an outsider.”

To Charlotte’s way of thinking, the prospect was not without good points. “Hmmm. That will make it difficult for you to palm me off on my family, won’t it?”

“So we’re back to that, are we?” He was glowering.

Charlotte laid her hands against his chest, felt a slight trembling and then the acceleration of his heartbeat against one palm. “I’ve said all I have to say on that subject. Kiss me, Patrick.”

He looked at her mouth, leaned his head toward hers in a motion so slight as to be nearly imperceptible, then drew back and scowled. “You’re not turning into one of those blasted ‘new women,’ are you?”

She smiled, sliding her palms lightly upward to his neck, knitting her fingers together at his nape. “Oh, no, Patrick, I’m not turning into ‘one of those blasted new women.’ I was
raised
to be one.”

He sighed. “All right,” he said, exasperated, spreading his arms wide of his body and then slapping his hands against his sides in resignation. “You win—I don’t have the strength or wit for your games. Have your way with me.”

The seriousness of this speech made Charlotte laugh out
loud. Then, her hands still caught together at his nape, she drew him downward into a leisurely kiss.