The Captain's Caress (11 page)

Had he but known it, Summer agreed with him. As she undressed that night, certain of its end and of the ends of all the other nights she was aboard this ship, she felt uneasy. Already her attraction to Brent was growing. She had a tendency to let her glance linger on his features; she remembered the strength of his arms, the power of his body. He was a magnet pulling her in his direction. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to go that way.

Certainly it would be wonderful to be cared for by such a man. It wasn’t every girl who could be loved, even for one night, by a man who so far transcended her dreams. But there was danger in it as well. What did she know about him? Only that he was a pirate who had captured and ravished her in the same day, no matter what Smith said about the Dutch government and freedom of the seas. But what more could she expect from a man who had never pretended that she was anything more to him than a means to cold-blooded revenge?

And that wasn’t all. He had scorned and mocked her in front of his men, had called her every name a woman dreads to hear, had accused her of behavior that was cruel and despicable.

Against that could be placed only his slight softening toward her since he’d learned she had never seen Gowan. It was true that he expected his crew to treat her with respect, but privately he had changed little. He still bullied her and ordered her about.

No, there was a third side consideration, and it was the most important. What was her future going to be, and would Brent be a part of it? She was the legal wife of the earl, bound to him by the ties of church, state, and social custom; but she could never be Gowan’s wife, not in the accepted sense. Still, she couldn’t stay with Brent. She doubted he’d be willing to give up his ship, marry, and settle down; yet she’d never dream of staying with him otherwise.

Summer couldn’t face the prospect of sailing the seas as Brent’s mistress, cut off from the only kind of life she had ever known. Soon she would find herself with another man, and then another, until it wouldn’t matter who she was with. After a while she wouldn’t even remember their names. Rather than confront that possibility she would go back to the earl. Even his curses would be preferable to that kind of degradation.

But would the earl come after her? Would he acknowledge her if she reached Scotland on her own? After he learned who had ravished her, would he renounce her?

Brent woke early. Summer was nestled in the corner of the bed, her back to him, and the sight of her naked body brought back the memory of the past night and of the preceding nights. A smile of satisfaction touched his lips and his sleepy eyes softened. Now that she was no longer a part of his revenge, his anger toward her had disappeared. In its place was a strong desire to be near this lovely girl who challenged his control over his senses. Her long tresses lay tumbled over her brow. He reached over to pull them back from her face, but the shift in his weight caused Summer to stir. She squirmed into a tighter ball, but, unable to settle down again, she moved about seeking a more comfortable position. She finally ended up half on her back and half on her side, with one arm across her chest. Brent thought she looked miserably uncomfortable.

He studied her closely, marveling at the loveliness of her whole body. Her smooth soft skin was velvety to the touch, and he ran his hand along her side and over her abdomen, letting the tips of his fingers barely touch her. He took a lock of hair between his fingers; it was silky soft and its burnished-copper highlights showed red-gold in the weak morning light. When he touched her cheek and brushed her lips with his fingertips, she dashed a hand over her face as though to brush away an insect. Brent picked up the sheet from the floor and spread it over her. She might as well sleep as long as she liked.

What was he going to do with her? He couldn’t send her back to her father, and he was not willing to turn her over to the earl.

He poured water from the pitcher into the basin and splashed it over his face. That refreshed him, but didn’t answer his questions. He took out his shaving gear and quickly removed the latest growth of whiskers from his smooth, tanned face. As he patted his skin dry, he glanced at Summer once again. She lay facing him now, and the quiet innocence of her face tugged at his heart. It was impossible to look on anything that lovely and not desire it, not long to hold it close. Yet it was also impossible to regard her guileless face and not want to protect her.

He drew on a loose shirt and brief pants that covered little of his powerful body and concealed none of his bulging muscles. He would have to keep her with him until he could find some solution. Maybe he would think of something before they reached Havana. If not, she’d be safe enough on Biscay Island.

He took one more look at the sleeping girl before he left, but his mind was not at ease.

Chapter 9

Summer sat cross-legged on the bed, chin in her hands, the covers wrapped tightly around her. It was difficult to believe that only seven days had passed; so much had changed in that time it felt more like seven years. She was no longer a naïve girl uncomfortable in the presence of most men; she was now a woman learning that the pleasures to be found in the arms of a man were wonderful and exciting, quite unlike anything she had previously experienced.

Brent’s image flashed into her mind, and she smiled as she remembered little things about him. It wasn’t that she had become immune to his muscular body or his virile good looks. She still felt weak whenever he was close to her, but she had begun to see things that she hadn’t had time to notice before: his hair was actually brown, but was bleached by the sun; he cocked his head to the right when he was amused; his eyes were not a pure blue, but took on a greenish hue when he became passionate.

She smiled languidly as she lay back down and snuggled up to her pillow. Life on the
Windswept
was spoiling her. She had all morning to get ready for lunch, and all afternoon to get ready for dinner, which was what she should be doing instead of daydreaming. But the weather had turned cold enough to make the bed deliciously snug, and the temptation to stay where she was just a little longer was too great to resist. With a sound that could have been mistaken for a purr, she rolled over and pulled the sheets under her chin.

“It’s cold enough to make your teeth chatter,” Brent announced striding into the cabin, bursting with energy and infectious good cheer.

“I know,” said Summer, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

“You’ll have to wear something warm tonight.”

“I don’t have anything warm.” She stifled a yawn. “It never got cold at home.”

“There must be something in one of those trunks. No one can have that many thin dresses.”

“I’ve got the clothes the earl sent, but I don’t know how to wear them.”

“Where are they?”

She pointed to a chest against the wall nearly twice the size of the others. “Bridgit was going to teach me, but she never got the chance.”

“Never mind about your damned maid,” he replied, tired of her carping about the missing servant. “I probably know more about women’s clothes than she does.”

“How could you?”

“I’ve taken a lot of them off,” he said, grinning attractively at her.

Summer blushed rosily. “What an awful thing to admit, and you’re not even ashamed.”

“Why should I be? They were just as anxious to get out of their clothes as I was to take them off,” he said nonchalantly, opening the trunk.

“I still think it’s disgraceful,” she insisted, trying to ignore a twinge of jealousy. But Brent wasn’t listening to her; he was turning over gown after gown made of the finest materials.

“Gowan must really have been taken with that portrait,” he said with a sharp whistle. “He’d cheat the parish priest if he could, but these clothes had to cost him a fortune.” Brent admired one particularly lavish gown. “He must have wanted you a lot.”

“He gave Father ten thousand pounds for me.”

“What?” Brent thundered, whipping around to face her. “Are you sure it wasn’t a thousand pounds, or even a hundred?” His voice was so unyielding, Summer remembered the day he’d captured the
Sea Otter
.

“Father told me his debts came to just under eight thousand pounds and that there would be some money left over.” The strange look in Brent’s eyes made Summer uneasy. He ground his teeth so hard his jaw muscles stood out.

“He must have wanted you very badly indeed,” he said, almost to himself. “I wonder why?”

“Father said it was because of my youthful beauty, and my innocence,” Summer stated modestly.

“I doubt that,” Brent rasped. “Gowan never put any value on those qualities before. It’s certain no one ever knew him to pay money for them.”

“All Brinklow mentioned was some nonsense about my family and breeding. Even I didn’t believe that.” She was piqued by Brent’s refusal to believe she was worth more than a hundred pounds.

“What exactly did he say?” Brent asked impatiently.

“I don’t remember. I didn’t like the man and I didn’t listen very closely to what he said.”

“Try to remember,” Brent urged, persistent as a hound after a lost scent. “It might be important.”

“I think he said the earl valued my bloodlines, that I came from an important family. He felt that with my beauty and breeding I would make an admirable countess.” She looked annoyed. “He sounded more like he was talking about a race horse.”

“There must be something in that,” Brent mused after a pause, “but I can’t see it. Gowan was never interested in marriage, not even when several well-dowered ladies did their best to catch him. And that was before he became rich by robbing me,” he added with savage emphasis. He sat absentmindedly in front of the open trunk speculating on several possible answers, but none satisfied him. He looked so fiercely angry that Summer didn’t dare make a sound.

“I can’t find anything here but formal gowns,” he said, coming out of his trance at last. “What else have you got?”

“There’s a smaller trunk.” Summer was relieved to see him looking more human, and she recalled that the second trunk contained many more gowns.

“Well, you’ll just have to wear one of these,” Brent declared, returning to the first trunk and selecting several items in rapid order. “You’ll certainly be the best-dressed woman on the Atlantic.” He dumped the armload of clothes on the bed. “I’ll help if you want.”

“But this is underwear,” protested Summer looking at the flimsy garments.

“What did you expect to put on first?”

“But I can’t put on underwear in front of you.”

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “I’ve seen you in less.” He grinned so broadly she ached to slap his face.

“That’s different,” she said, refusing to be baited. “I really would feel like a strumpet if I put these things on with you watching.”

“I can’t see that it matters.”

“Well, it does,” she assured him.

“All right. I’ll leave for a few minutes, but don’t take too long. I’m anxious to get to the stockings.”

“Go away,” she said, blushing in spite of herself. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Summer picked up the flimsy chemise and the drawers. I might as well be naked, she thought. Then she threw off the sheet, climbed out of bed and said out loud, “I don’t know why I’m hesitating over underwear. It’s the only thing I do know how to put on.” She held the garments up for closer inspection, then donned them. It was cold in the cabin and she was already covered with goose bumps. She intended to put the stockings on herself, but she was barely seated when the door opened and Brent stuck his head in.

“I thought as much,” he said accusingly. “Trying to cut me out of the fun.” He took the stockings out of her hands and expertly ran them up on his fingers.

Summer stifled an urge to pull the sheet over her head again; she felt like a lewd and abandoned female.

“Now give me your foot,” he ordered.

Reluctantly Summer raised her foot and Brent slipped the stocking over her toes. Then with deliberate slowness he drew it over her heel and ankle, up the calf, and over the knee, to where it was attached to the drawers. Summer held her breath as his hands moved along the inside of her thigh, then let out a long, pent-up sigh of relief when the first stocking was attached. She had barely recovered before Brent said, “Now the other foot.” Once again the bold fingers slid the stocking over her toes and gently, steadily, irresistibly they traveled up her leg. Brent was breathing hard before the second one was attached, but Summer wasn’t breathing at all.

“Now for the corset,” he said, standing up abruptly. “You’re not going to like this at all.” His words released the tension. Summer felt weak and deflated, but Brent, recovering more quickly than she did, held up an evil-looking contraption made of heavy linen and strings. “Pull in your stomach,” he said. Summer did, and before she had time to let it out again he wrapped the corset around her waist, encasing her middle in a merciless band of whalebone.

“I can’t breathe,” she wailed, knowing the terror a horse feels the first time a cinch is tightened around its girth.

“It’s not nearly tight enough,” Brent told her. “I’ve got to pull it in two more inches.”

“I’ll die,” she moaned, but Brent pulled and tugged until she felt unable to breathe. No cry of pain, no plaintive entreaty stopped him until he had reduced her waist to eighteen inches and the rest of her body to agony.