Chance the Winds of Fortune (41 page)

“She claims she was thirsty, and I am almost inclined to believe her, for it is just unlikely enough to have happened,” Dante explained with a twisted grin.

“Who could she be, and why is she on board the
Sea Dragon
then?” Kirby wondered aloud. “So ye don't think she came lookin' fer the map?”

Dante remained silent for a moment. “I am not sure, but as long as I have any doubts, she will not be allowed to leave the
Sea Dragon
. Too much is at stake to make a mistake in judgment this late in the game. She has denied any knowledge of it, even of my identity.” Dante shook his head wearily. “But she is so full of lies that I cannot be certain, and I will not take the chance that I might be mistaken about her purpose in being on board. Whatever her reasons, she saw the map, and I will not risk her selling her information to the likes of Bertie Mackay.”

“Ah, ye don't think she would be workin' fer him, d'ye now?” Kirby asked, refusing to believe a wee thing like her could have anything to do with such a fellow. “She don't look too well, Cap'n,” Kirby commented, noting her flushed cheeks with a professional eye. “Ye shouldn't have lost your temper with her, Cap'n. Thought ye was goin' to murder the wee one, I did.” He shrugged off the displeasure he saw in his captain's eye and continued with apparent unconcern. “Reckon ye might be partly responsible fer the shape she's in right now. So, what are we goin' to do with her, then?” he demanded, taking the still-full bowl from his captain's hand.

“Keep her,” Dante said curtly. “She might not agree with that right now, but she will be far better off on board the
Sea Dragon
than walking the streets. Maybe in the morning I will be able to persuade a few truths out of her. Then we can decide what to do with her. But until then, she shall remain our guest on board the
Sea Dragon
.” Dante stared down at the girl's delicately molded face, unconsciously admiring her golden hair, which had dried in thick, shining waves. Then he eased his back against the paneling of his bunk, trying not to disturb the restlessly sleeping girl.

“I'll be right down the corridor if ye should need me, Cap'n,” Kirby told him as he shook out a blanket and spread it across the slight form in the captain's shirt. Then he went to the table and rolled up the treasure map, carefully replacing it in the bottle, then putting the bottle back into its proper place on the rack. Stacking the dishes and glasses on his tray, he let himself quietly out of the cabin.

Dante settled himself more comfortably in the bunk, the girl's body so light that he hardly felt her pressing against his chest and thighs. He sighed as he thought over the events of the evening, wondering what more could happen before dawn came to Charles Town and brought this long night to an end. Closing his eyes, he cradled the girl against his chest, resting his chin on top of her golden head. He opened a wary eye as he felt something land on his feet; then he watched curiously as Jamaica curled up against the girl's side, for all the world like an old friend.

For the first time since waking up in her own bed at Camareigh, Rhea awoke feeling warm. But suddenly she was too hot. Irritably, she tried to kick off some of the heavy blankets. But her legs felt leaden, and as she tried to sit up, the room began to spin alarmingly.

Rhea felt something hard slide around her waist, preventing her from falling sideways against the wall. She turned her head slightly and stared down with heavy-lidded eyes at the man lying next to her in the bunk. He was watching her carefully, almost suspiciously.

She had only a vague memory of that first unfortunate meeting with the less-than-friendly captain of the
Sea Dragon
, and now, halfway between sleep and consciousness, her memory was fragmented and confused. For an instant, as she openly met his gaze, Rhea felt none of the antagonism she should have.

His long-lashed eyes were extraordinarily beautiful—like quicksilver in a sun-bronzed face. They subtly reflected light and shadow; they were chiaroscuro eyes, reminding Rhea one moment of the clear streams that wended down from the hills around Camareigh, and in the next moment, assuming the muted softness of a gray-winged dove.

Rhea was captivated by the touch of his eyes, then by the touch of his mouth against hers, but she felt something was wrong as she fought off the feverish haze that was clouding her thoughts. For the exquisitely molded lips were hard and demanding, and the gray eyes were crystalline with malice as they stared into hers, not softened by love as they should have been.

Rhea gasped as the bronzed face with the silver eyes became the devilishly grinning face of the captain of the
Sea Dragon
. This man holding her against his bare chest was the madman who had humiliated her and subjected her to ridicule when she had been in desperate need of help.

“Yes, none other. After all, you are in my bed,” Dante reminded her, “and wearing my shirt,” he added, his eyes lingering on the rounded curve of her breasts.

Rhea glanced down in growing dismay, for until now some of the finer details of the previous night had escaped her. She glanced back up, only to encounter a muscular expanse of bronzed chest. She looked away in embarrassment and confusion, this time to encounter a pair of damp, wrinkled breeches and a shirt looking much like the one she had on. They had been left in a disorderly pile on the floor, as if little thought had been given to them at the time.

Dante, following Rhea's glance, raised a questioning eyebrow. “You hardly expected me to sleep in wet breeches?” he asked with a look of feigned surprise. “I'd have caught my death of cold, and you wouldn't have wanted that, would you?”

“I would have rejoiced at the news,” Rhea declared, her cheeks flushed with anger and fever.

“Ah, now that would not have done at all,” Dante said with a grin, his hand straying to a long strand of golden hair clinging to his chest. “I am afraid that they would hold you solely responsible for my untimely death. After all, 'twas you who soaked me through to the skin last night when I was trying to bathe you. They would not think kindly about so cruel an end for an act of kindness.” Dante's lips twitched with laughter while he waited for her response to his bait.

“Kindness?” Rhea's voice was choked with anger.

“Now, now, you really should be grateful to me,” Dante interrupted in a soothing voice, ignoring her look of incredulity. “I have abetted you in your cause, for you are in my bed and in my arms, and,” he said, pressing his mouth against her slightly parted lips before continuing, “you are very close to achieving your goal of seducing me.”

And lest she be in any doubt about the truth of his words, Dante slid his arms around her warm body, easing her closer to him as his hands slid beneath the shirt and moved slowly upward along her thighs. The shirt moved upward too, baring her flesh to him; his hands easily cupped her small buttocks and he brought her hips gently against his.

Rhea Claire Dominick was in no doubt about his passion, nor the truth of his words, for a burning heat was growing harder against her, touching her intimately, insinuating itself closer to the vulnerable softness between her legs.

In shame Rhea closed her eyes, for she couldn't seem to escape the hard hands that were molding her ever closer against that relentless pressure. She drew in her breath in surprise when she felt his mouth against her breasts and then the soft touch of his tongue; opening her eyes, she gazed down at the head of wavy, chestnut hair lying heavy against her. Every inch of the man's hot flesh was like a brand burning into her, marking her with his scent and feel.

As his mouth caressed the taut arch of throat, Dante tasted hot, salty tears, and, startled, he glanced up, caught off guard by her unexpected response to his lovemaking. He stared at her, confused not only by her reaction to him, but by his equally strange reaction to her. He glanced down at his trembling hand with contemptuous disbelief. With the back of his hand, he wiped away the beads of perspiration lining his upper lip. He felt disgusted with himself for wanting this girl so badly that he would forget all else in the taking of her.

The violet eyes were so close to his that he could see a primrose ring encircling the widening pupils. And the unpleasant fact that they were widening with fear and revulsion, not ardor, left him feeling strangely uncomfortable. But despite her obvious dislike of his touch, he found himself experiencing the same fascination he had felt when he had awakened to find his trespasser snuggled into the curve of his chest, her soft backside riding against his hips so trustingly and innocently.

His senses had filled with the warm scent of her. The soap he had used on her the night before smelled both familiar and foreign as it wafted to him from her skin. He had noticed the incredible loveliness of her hair, and burying his face in the deep golden tresses, he had breathed the heady fragrance of the sea and sandalwood.

She had rolled over suddenly, pushing restlessly at the covers, and Dante had found himself staring into her face. Her expression was angelic in her sleep, and her cheeks were stained a wild rose color that contrasted startlingly with the ashen cast of the skin of her body.

She had seemed so guileless in her sleep that Dante had to force himself to remember her lies and actions of the night before. He had hardened his heart against the appeal of her seraphic appearance.

But when she had opened those limpid violet eyes, and he found himself staring into them, all of his fine reasoning had been banished by the abrupt tightening in his loins. All he could think to do was to press his mouth against hers and elicit a response from their softness. He wanted to feel her lips seeking his, her hands caressing him, her hips moving rhythmically against his. But none of this happened; instead, she shrunk away from him, as if she could not endure his touch. For one brief moment, when she gazed into his eyes, he thought… But no, a look of fearfulness replaced her expression of sensuality.

Dante was rudely jolted from his thoughts by the painful impact of the top of her head meeting the curve of his chin. That this was no accident but a carefully planned assault, he soon realized as he struggled to free his shoulder from the teeth sinking into them, while at the same time avoiding the sharp nails trying to shred his skin. He managed to evade the knee that would have done considerable damage to his self-esteem had it connected with a very vulnerable spot, but the small fist speeding toward his nose could not be eluded entirely, and it smacked a glancing blow to his cheekbone.

Making quick use of his greater weight, Dante rolled the squirming little hellcat beneath him, pinning her flat against the bunk, rendering her swinging fists useless for the moment. Then he tried to catch his breath. With the taste of blood still warm in his mouth from the blow she had dealt him, Dante stared into her now very frightened face. They were both panting, and Dante could feel every breath she drew against his own chest and belly.

And it was upon this intimate scene that a furious Helene Jordane, eyes flashing with temper, Gallic blood on the boil, stumbled unannounced. There had been a heated argument outside the cabin door, but neither Dante or Rhea had heard the commotion.

“I told ye the cap'n was otherwise occupied,” Kirby reminded her, standing firm against a look from Helene's eyes that should have put him six feet under. He hid well his own surprise, for he hadn't quite expected to be greeted by this scene, but then, Dante was not a predictable man. And that was probably why they were all alive today.

“Damn you, Dante Leighton! Damn you to hell!” Helene Jordane cried in mortification as she stared at Dante and the golden-haired girl in his bed. Her eyes were mesmerized by that ivory-skinned leg entwined with Dante's deeply tanned one; it was quite obvious to her, in her wrathful indignation, that they had been coupling. The girl's beautiful face was flushed from his kisses, and even she, from where she stood across the room, could hear the ragged breathing of the two lovers.

Dante had humiliated her and was no doubt laughing silently at this very moment, while his whore snuggled up to him beneath the covers. She would never forgive him for this affront. She had planned last night so carefully. If she could have gotten him into her bed, she knew she'd have been able to conceive. After all, she'd done it before. That would have assured her of the Marquis of Jacqobi's ring on her finger. And this time she would have made certain that nothing happened to the baby.

“Helene,” Dante murmured and sat up, the coverlet wrapping around his hips as he propped himself against the pillows. He held Rhea in the circle of his arm as he stared mockingly at his onetime paramour. “This is most unexpected. I have never known you to go calling before noon. You must have had a quiet evening and retired early. 'Tis a pity.” He spoke casually, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about the predicament he now found himself in.

Rhea, however, was so flushed and trembling with embarrassment that she felt ill. And the woman confronting them was almost convulsed with rage, leaving Rhea in little doubt that she bore some grievance against the grinning captain of the
Sea Dragon
. A sudden disquieting thought came to Rhea. What if this woman was his wife? This stunningly beautiful woman would certainly have reason to be infuriated at the discovery of her husband compromising another woman, but even given those sordid circumstances, Rhea still could not believe the vituperative language that was spilling from the woman's sneering mouth. Never before had Rhea heard anyone, much less a gentlewoman, speak with so befouled a tongue.

“…and you could have been in my arms, but instead you choose to consort with some common whore off the docks. Well, the pox on both of you!” Helene spat, her narrowed gaze not missing the way Dante's hand strayed to a golden curl on the girl's temple. The unconscious gentleness of the gesture blackened her spirit even more.