The Captain of All Pleasures (2 page)

“Pssh. When I first got there, they told me I had to master seven subjects out of nine, which—I—did.” He'd never know it had taken everything in her power to do so. She found it difficult to acquire graces designed to snag a rich, titled husband. Because at twenty and with her quirky looks, she was not just firmly on the shelf. She was on the top shelf—the one it took a ladder to get to.

“And I suppose it's only coincidence that you finished seven with enough time to travel back here just days before the Great Circle Race.”

Nicole looked away again. She'd been planning to sail the race for the past two years, ever since reading about Queen Victoria's decree for a global contest open to sailors of any nationality. She'd decided then that nothing would stand in her way. Not slapped hands when she chose the wrong utensil nor ridiculing dance masters, and not the constant teasing about her being too old for school. Especially not a hard-as-iron headmistress bent on cramming her into a proper-lady mold and chopping off anything that remained outside.

This race would be the greatest in history—a win could catapult their line to worldwide recognition—and she wanted nothing more than to be a part of it.

When she didn't respond, he teasingly pulled her cap down, then asked in a conciliatory tone, “So tell me, what were the two subjects you failed?”

Popping her hat back up, she feigned a grave look. “Alas, I fear that floral arrangement and playing the harpsichord are forever out of my grasp. As you can imagine, the knowledge of my deficiencies is crushing,” she added as she checked an imaginary tear.

Lassiter looked to chuckle in response, his stifled smile showing her that he was happy to see her. But he made his features stern again. “Listen to me, Nicole. I want to enjoy our time together before I sail, so let's get one thing straight about the race.”

Her brows drew together. Dear Lord, he couldn't be; he was opening his mouth, his face set to tell her she…wouldn't be sailing. “Don't say anything yet—please,” she said in a rush of words. “Just give me a few days to prove to you that you need me in the race.” And every voyage after.

“Nicole, it's not going to—”

“Please!”
She grabbed his forearm and began to speak, but he held up his rope-scarred hand to forestall her.

She decided then that she couldn't win this skirmish. But this was hardly over. She had other arrows in her quiver for their next round, so she reeled in her thoughts and forced herself to let the fight lie for now.

And was even silent when he said, “I'll make this as clear as possible: Nicole, there is no way in hell you are sailing this race. And you have Sutherland to thank for making my decision easy. While I have a breath in my body, you won't be anywhere within reach when I have to contend with him.”

 

I'm going to kill those beasts,
Nicole thought grimly as she pounded her head against her forearm on the desk. When she sat up, she blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes, and looked down at her desk, presently littered with charts. She glared at all the numbers and equations fogging together.

She couldn't think, much less concentrate on plotting a course to impress her father. She didn't expect to when the livestock in the hold had been shrilling for a quarter of an hour.

Of course, this
would
happen when no one was on board to shush the puling animals. Lassiter had gone to a meeting he'd set up through the woman from the tavern, and nearly all of the crew were out enjoying their liberal shore leave.

The sounds dimmed. Holding her breath, she inwardly commanded their silence for the rest of the night. Just when she picked up her pen again, the animals erupted once more. Disgusted, she threw it down. Why weren't the two crewmen who'd drawn guard duty tonight seeing to this annoyance?

Probably asleep on the job.
She
would never fall asleep on the job.

Nicole stretched her arms high above her head before rising from the bolted-down chair in her cabin. Although she wasn't going very far, she grabbed her woolen cloak and pulled it tight.

She trotted with her clanging lamp toward the companionway, trying not to breathe too deeply of the sluggish low-tide air, but she couldn't suppress a yawn or two. She thought of the other reason she'd gotten so little accomplished this whole day—her exhaustion in the face of a sleepless night. She'd tossed and turned with sensual dreams, the sheets tangling between her legs, the fine cloth of her nightdress growing too bristly against sensitive skin.

In this dream, the man who set upon her wasn't a faceless stranger. It was Sutherland.

She reminded herself that he'd largely influenced her father's misguided decision about her sailing. And that the race would pit her father against this man again, making bad blood worse. So why could she still feel his warm, strong fingers firm on her wrist?

Shaking her head, Nicole drove him from her mind yet again. She did not have time for distractions.

At the companionway, she scanned the deck for the guards. Unable to see anyone to reprimand, she swung effortlessly down the steep, narrow steps as she had a thousand times before. When the light touched the animals, the insouciant goat merely swung its head toward her. But the wide-eyed pigs and sheep were frightened and heartily announced that fact in the echoing confines of the hold.

She puckered her lips and cooed, but they were spooked as they were when a bad storm was brewing. Muttering a curse, Nicole set her lamp on the floor and reached for the shovel to throw them more feed.

Her arm halted in midair.

The light from the lantern faintly illuminated a shape crouched on the floor, a huddled form partially obscured by one of the mighty timber ribs of the ship.

A man?

Nicole pushed her hair out of her eyes and up more securely in her hood as she squinted to make out the sailor's identity. Whoever he was, he needed to learn that he shouldn't be down here at odd hours without a good reason. Even more, if he'd upset the animals, then he should have made some effort to calm them.

“Just what do you think you're doing down here, sailor?” she demanded, each word she spoke underscored by the solid click of her boots as she marched toward him.

But as she neared him, something inside her, some oftignored instinct, told her to proceed warily.

He didn't answer, just rose and turned to her. Her breath leached out in a hiss.

The man bore a purplish, bubbled scar that curved over his forehead and down through a vacant eye socket. A foul odor emanated from him. It was the smell of gin, refuse, and…blood. She gagged, her eyes watering as she swallowed to keep from retching.

After several shallow breaths, her wits returned. This couldn't be one of her father's men. Which meant…which meant that she was in trouble. Again.

The play of emotions over her face must have amused the scarred man, because he grinned, revealing teeth that resembled little chunks of charred wood. She couldn't stop the widening of her eyes, or the hasty step back.

With her next step, she drew a deeper breath, regretting it immediately as his reeking form moved toward her. She managed to say, “Carry on, sailor. M-my apologies.”

For a second, then two, she awaited his reaction. How could she attract the guards' attention when the animals obviously hadn't? Could she outrun him? She was in trousers—she might be able to escape to the deck if he came after her. She should try…she really should
move
.

Just as she spun toward the companionway, the man called out, “Don't think we'll be wantin' 'er to go nowhere, Clive.”

Appearing out of the shadows before her came a hulking second man, a man she sensed was even more dangerous than the first.

Two of them, in the hold. With her.

Nicole gaped at this new man's equally alarming appearance. She found herself morbidly fascinated by his pie-plate face, round and stamped down except for the bulbous protrusion of his lips. She watched him much like a bystander witnessing a terrible carriage accident, mouth parted, too horror-struck to move.

An instant later, the will to defend herself rose up, and her eyes darted all around to spy out a weapon. But she wouldn't be able to grab the hold's shovel or pitchfork before either of the men could get to her.

Then she spied the haphazard arrangement of tools on the floor beside the second man. The bastards were here to sabotage them! Fury spiked through her before settling like a weight on her chest, but she bit it back and said, “I am sorry for interrupting whatever repairs you're doing down here. I'll be going back up to my cabin…so good night.”

“You ain't goin' nowhere, lady,” the man called Clive said through those beefy lips. “I think you're goin' to stay with us and keep me 'n' Pretty comp'ny for a spell.” His voice was guttural and his leering eyes scoured her body. Revulsion racked her. She flexed and closed her fingers as she fought for control. “You didn't think I'd let a comely piece of puss like you leave without me givin' you a good toss, did you?”

“Now, 'old on, Clive,” Pretty protested from where he'd stopped, not five feet from her side. “The boss didn' say nothin' about tuppin' nobody tonight.” He scratched intently in his greasy hair as he suggested, “Let's me 'n' you finish up 'ere afore we get caught, 'n' then we'll take care of 'er.”

“Bugger you, Pretty,” Clive said as he reached for the front of her cloak. A panicked screech burst from her lips. She kicked out at him. The stiff toe of her boot planted into his knee before she dashed around him, narrowly shimmying past his enraged lunge.

“Help! Somebody help me!”
she screamed just once before she reached the steps. She knew no one was coming to her rescue. Tonight her survival was in her own hands.

Fast as Nicole flew to the stairs, the big brute was faster, and she managed just three steps up the companionway before he leapt for her legs. Catching her ankles in a manacle-like grip, he snatched them back viciously. She felt weightless for a fraction of a second before she crashed against the stairs in a jarring bounce. Stunned, she scarcely registered the pain as the wood shoved into her stomach and chest, wrenching the air out of her lungs.

Over her violent gasps, she dimly heard the scarred man yelling at them over the din of screaming animals. The pain ebbed and her sight blurred…until Clive hauled her back down, dragging her limp body toward him, one hand over the other snaking higher up her leg.

Fight, damn it, fight!
With a hidden reserve of strength, she kicked forcefully, her heel catching the man squarely in his foul, soft mouth.

Blood spurt. He howled in pain, yet managed to keep one hand fisted around her leg. Another furious kick connected, loosening his hold, and she pulled at the stairs above with all the fading power left in her arms.

She'd broken free. She'd—

“I'll shoot you if you try that again.” The words accompanied the rasp of a pistol hammer being cocked.

She craned her head back over her shoulder. The scarred man had a gun trained on her. Shaking, she looked back down at Clive, who rose to his feet and staggered toward her, his bloody face split into a gruesome sneer.

One glance into his pebbly eyes, seeing the frenzied rage directed at her, decided her fate in a flash.

Ignoring the gun pointed at her back, she sprang to her feet and bolted up the stairs, pumping her arms for speed, knowing she was too weak…too slow.

Halfway up, she felt rather than heard the click of the hammer. A shot roared through the shadowy hold.

D
erek Sutherland was an angry man.

Those who knew him well, and they were few, feared he wasn't many years away from becoming a bitter man. The events of the last four years did seem to guarantee his descent in that direction.

Late on this cold and bleak night, in addition to being angry, he was drunk. As was usual.

In truth, only one thing was out of the ordinary. He'd begun sobering up, an inconvenience he hoped to remedy soon in a nearby tavern. Lengthening his strides, he weaved his way through the broken crowds that populated the docks. He made his way easily even with the influx of people the race had drawn, since most wisely gave him a wide berth when he came near.

This wasn't only because he was a large man, standing a head taller than most out here. Nor was it that his hard face evinced the anger he wrestled with more and more each day. It was because he'd become a man who had nothing to lose, making him the most dangerous kind. And it showed.

He wasn't unaware of his effect on those around him—for years it'd been this way. In fact, only a handful of people didn't back down from him. One of whom was Amanda Sutherland, his mother—which was unfortunate, he thought, as he recalled this latest meaningless evening at the Sutherland London town house.

He'd been about to leave for the night when she'd summoned him into her deliberately feminine sitting room. He didn't have to guess what course the conversation would take and only wondered that it had taken her this long to approach him yet again.

When he sauntered in, he'd forgone planting a kiss on her offered cheek, and ignored the brief flash of hurt in her eyes. He moved straight to the least-delicate chair facing her and settled uncomfortably in the small seat.

Crossing his long legs at the ankles, Derek drawled, “I can't imagine why you would want to see me, Mother.”

She pursed her lips at that, but after painstakingly smoothing her crisp skirts, she spoke evenly. “Will you stop by your club tonight?”

He laughed at her ludicrous question, but the sound was foreign and grated. He grew silent and fought to rein in the formidable temper that had helped bring his life to the low point he currently enjoyed.

Before he answered, he leaned forward in his seat to glare a warning. “I'll be damned if we do this again. You know bloody well that I am not going to the club or to any of your balls or soirees or anywhere else I might have to see or hear of…of my situation,” he snapped, his face tense with resentment.

Though she should have been accustomed to it by now, his mother had looked startled at his quickening fury. Nevertheless, she said, “You have a responsibility to your title, Derek. It's time, past time, you had an heir.”

“Grant's my heir,” he'd said, naming his brother.

“But a son—”

“Cannot and will not happen.”

His baleful tone hadn't even slowed her. No, she took a fortifying breath and proceeded to drag them both through the same old argument. She never missed a chance—they had it every time he was in London.

For what had to be half the night, he'd listened to her rant and plead, changing tactics with expert precision. Finally, he'd grown so furious he'd shot out of his chair to leave, intending to stay away from his family until he sailed.

But she wouldn't let it go.

“So which route are you sailing this time? China? South America?” she questioned before he could escape to the hall.

Reluctantly he turned back toward her, making his face cold as dead ash. “London to Sydney.”

“Sydney?” she replied with mock excitement. “Oh, yes, Queen Victoria's Great Circle Race. I read about it in the paper some time back. How patriotic of you.” Her brittle smile belied the sentiment of her words. “And how utterly convenient to find yet another voyage that goes so far afield.”

Derek couldn't disagree.

She studied his face. “There and back should take you how long?”

“Half a year.” Then, seeing the disappointment in her flinty gray eyes, eyes so like his own, he'd once again turned toward the door.

As expected, nothing had been resolved. But her parting shot kept running through his mind: “I often wonder if you go to sea because you love it…or because you are a base coward.”

Christ, he needed a drink.

What did that woman want him to do? And his brother Grant, who'd regarded him with awkward commiseration as Derek stormed past him and out the door? Everyone involved knew he could find no out, no possible redemption. He understood it, and damn it, he behaved accordingly.

He wondered vaguely what his mother and brother would say if they learned that something had finally pierced through the weary anger that clung to him. That a young dockside whore with soulful, dark eyes had provoked the earl to a pulse. A whore in boys' clothing working the Mermaid, of all places—

Several shrieks coming from ahead interrupted his thoughts. Curious to see what had unhinged the mob tonight, he made his way to a row of canvas-wrapped crates at the side of the walk and stepped up to get a better view. Under a canopy of large, cheaply milled hats and gathered heads, a small lad sped down the quay, running clumsily into several outraged women loitering about. With a quick lift of his chin, Derek made out two rough men beyond, plowing through the crowd after him.

Derek jumped down lightly and, with a brush of his hands, continued on his way. That boy had riled the wrong people, he mused indifferently. Those men were cutthroats—the kid didn't have a chance against one of them, let alone two. Even knowing this, he vowed to look the other way, as every other person on the docks would. He was no different from the worst sorts out here on this night.

He would just keep walking. Forget about interfering.

But when the boy barreled right past him, Derek spun around to see him get tangled in an old hempen rope coiled on the walk. The lad sailed forward, arms careening uselessly, before plunging to a stop on the slushy ground. Shaking his head, as if he couldn't quite believe he'd fallen, the boy raised himself on his arms but couldn't seem to manage his legs.

What was left of Derek's withered conscience demanded a rescue, but he easily quelled the thought. He wasn't the man he used to be. Besides, he could already see the sign of the tavern where he'd been heading. So close to a night of mind-numbing vice…

Judging by the sounds coming from ahead, the men were closing in.

“Watch yerself, ye bastard!” a flamboyantly dressed woman wailed as she swung her cloth bag against one of the men's heads. When he turned around to face her, she grew silent, frozen, then loped off into the night. Derek understood why—the man looked as if he were fresh from a nightmare.

Before he could stop himself, Derek turned to catch another look at the kid. Still valiantly trying to pull himself up, to get his little boots to catch a foothold on the grimy walk. Strangely, Derek had to fight the feeling of pity, a feeling increasingly unfamiliar to him.

He stalled for only a second more. The boy was probably a cutpurse and deserved whatever punishment those men handed out. Determined to turn away, he shook his head and walked on.

An affirmation, he knew, of just how big a bastard he had become.

 

Like a separate thing living in her, Nicole's fear grew, choking her throat. She strained to scramble up, but in her heart, she didn't know how much longer she could go on. Every movement shot pain through her exhausted limbs. Every choppy breath made her lungs burn as though she inhaled fire.

This wasn't how she wanted to go out—not sinking into the filth of a London street waiting to be plucked up by Clive.

I want to go down swinging.
She bit back tears of pain and frustration, but before she was even conscious of it, a sob arose and spilled forth on a breath.

“Bloody hell,”
a deep-voiced man grated from just behind her. A string of imaginative cursing followed; all at once she was lifted up and tucked into the side of some exasperated, angry giant. As he started toward a forgotten crack between two tea warehouses, shock rose up to claim her again; she couldn't even tell herself to fight because
he wasn't one of those men.

Had she found a savior from the docks? Not likely, yet the man held her gently.

“Don't be afraid,” he advised sharply. “I won't hurt you.”

The man holding her had the clipped, precise speech of a gentleman, and her own instincts weren't screaming danger in his presence. She was strangely unafraid, especially considering that she'd just been shot at, and barely escaped with her life.
Shot at
. On her own ship, a bullet whizzing past her ear. Splinters exploding all around her head…

That memory crystallized her thoughts. She had little apprehension of this man, but didn't want to be a sitting duck. No time to explain to him why—she needed to keep herself safe. She twisted in his arm and began kicking, drumming her boots against the backs of his legs.

“I'm trying to help you.
Son of a—will you stop?”

Her blows had no effect. Thinking her attack would enrage him, she hunched her head between her shoulders to prepare for a slap or worse.

Yet he calmly redoubled his efforts to restrain her. He was easily twice her weight, huge, with unbudgeable arms. He could subdue her with laughable effort. But even as she fought, she got the strange impression that he tried very hard not to hurt her.

“Calm down! Damn it, you're like a greased cat,” he uttered in a low, aggravated voice.

As she twisted to get free, she managed a fleeting look at her would-be protector. Recognition hammered past her disbelief. Even as she clawed and squirmed, her foggy mind grasped that the man holding her was none other than Captain Derek Sutherland.

If she weren't sure she was about to be killed, she might have laughed.
Out of the frying pan, and I dive for the fire.

He struggled to rein her in, almost methodically attempting and rejecting hold after hold. It would only be a matter of time before he bested her, but she fought on. Until unexpectedly, he shifted her in his arms, one hand groping for some means of holding her.

And then…the unthinkable.

His hand slipped through her open cloak and up her shirt until…it landed on her breast.

Aside from her heavy breaths, she grew perfectly still. She didn't know why: Because he had stilled? Or because she couldn't think of anything but his—hand?

Big, scratchy, ablaze with heat, it left an imprint on her skin.
Was that his finger tumbling over her nipple?
His hand seemed to move over her, his grip shifting from brusquely covering her breast to gently, curiously…cupping her.
No, now it was his thumb.

She should begin kicking again. She should. But he'd rendered her body boneless. Captain Derek Sutherland had his hand on her breast, her mind repeated like a mantra.

His hand on her breast.

Did she hear him mutter a curse? Her skin felt chilled when he tore his hand from her shirt as if he had been burned. He spun her around, and the whole front of her body rubbed against his.

Nicole made a vain attempt to marshal her scattered thoughts. Her father's worst rival held her in a back alley, alone with him, so why didn't she fight? Because she was weak. Breathless.

Then he ran his hands down her arms and placed them on her hips. Warmth flooded her body anew and pooled in her belly.

She'd been around men most of her life, had lived in close quarters with them for extended periods of time, but she had never experienced this unexplainable yearning that seized her so suddenly and so forcefully.

Nicole shook her head, wanting to deny the feeling. She'd simply been so frightened, and he held her safely, or rather, safer, in his arms. The man warmed her, she reasoned, like a cocoon in the stinging night air. And his cleanly crisp smell tickled her nose. Male. His scent was…male. Not like the liquor and cheap perfume she expected from a blackguard like him, but so alluring that she wanted to bury her face in his broad, hard chest and breathe him.

Even as her face inched closer to his body, a part of her mind argued that he might not have gotten a good look at her face. Her hood was still on her head. She could run—

As if he could read her mind, Sutherland enclosed her more tightly in his arms. With a gasp signaling part disbelief, part something else she couldn't begin to name, she felt his hardened arousal pressed high against her belly. Startled, she twisted away, which only caused her to brush more closely against that part of him.

He inhaled sharply in response, and his whole body went rigid around hers. “Easy,” he said. The word rumbled like lingering thunder after a storm.

“Let me go—I have to…go,” she pleaded. She couldn't manage more than standing there panting, her body a mix of tension and a melting flow. She stared at him, this unyielding man who gave no indication that he would release her. When one of his large hands loosened its hold, she sensed he was about to remove her hood. She didn't want that, couldn't have that, but her body was immobile, drawn by the warm strength of his.