The Notorious Lady Anne: A Loveswept Historical Romance (15 page)

Being a captain took its toll on even the strongest of men. But a woman?

He pictured Emmaline high up on the yardarm, pulling the boy to safety. Many captains wouldn’t have done that. Many captains would have watched the boy flail about until he fell to his death.

Emmaline—Lady Anne—was a lot stronger than most of the men Nicholas knew.

“So he was saving her?” he prompted.

“I thought he was going to attack her.” She straightened the bedsheet over Shamus’s hips. “I tried to stop him.” Her gaze grew troubled. “I’m unsure what happened. He attacked me. I fought back. We ended up in a skirmish.”

“You stabbed him.” Shamus
had
been telling the truth.

She lowered her head until her hair fell in a veil to cover her face. Her shoulders, always straight and proud, bowed. Nicholas desperately wanted to go to her, to push those shoulders back and rest her head on his shoulder. To let her cry tears he feared she didn’t allow herself to cry.

“You did what you thought was right with the information you had. I would have done the same. Hell, any one of us would have done the same.” Far off, in the back of his mind, he
heard the warning clang of a ship’s bell. He should
not
be defending her actions. She had, after all, attacked an innocent merchant vessel. Yet he couldn’t bear to see her so distraught, and wanted to give her some comfort. Besides, he knew he was in the right. Anyone else would have done the same. Any other person with an ounce of humanity inside them.

Humanity he didn’t believe until now a pirate possessed.

She sniffed and raised her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose pink, but there were no tears. “I should have known better. I should have seen.”

“You’re not God, Emmaline.”

“I am to these men.”

Nicholas shook his head, but he understood. Most of these men knew nothing but the harsh life of the sea. They believed in God, but God was intangible. Emmaline was not. Her decisions kept them alive, and they looked to her for guidance.

They lapsed into silence. Shamus slept peacefully, but his fever concerned Nicholas.

Emmaline reached for a wet rag and wiped it over Shamus’s chest and face. Nicholas should have been bothered by the fact that they were virtually alone, he without a shirt, she in … well, the garments she was in. But he wasn’t. It seemed natural to be here, and their silence was comfortable.

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. Emmaline wasn’t who he’d thought, and neither was Lady Anne. Yet he couldn’t forget, no matter what name she went by, he was still her prisoner.

As dawn lit the sky in streaks of lavender and pink, Emmaline changed Shamus’s bandage again, flushing the wound with more ale and replacing the old bandage with a new, clean one.

Nicholas slipped out of the bunk and stretched his legs. His thigh ached, and he hobbled around the cabin to work the kinks out of it. He caught Emmaline surreptitiously glancing at him, her lips pressed together. Probably to keep her questions in.

Nicholas didn’t talk about his injury. At first there was no need, because everyone knew
about it. Later he wanted to forget it. He still didn’t want to talk about it. Especially to a pirate. So, he let her unspoken questions go unanswered.

When the sun reached its highest point, Shamus began to thrash about again, crying out, mumbling disjointed words, his fever higher than ever. Nicholas’s prayers for his recovery changed to prayers for a quick death. In Emmaline’s eyes, he glimpsed the fear inside himself.

They were losing him.

Emmaline stroked Shamus’s forehead and talked to him quietly and calmly, commanding him to get well.

Nicholas moved to the chair and let the rhythm of her voice ensnare him, like the sirens the sailors liked to talk about.

She spoke of her home on Barbados, of the lush forests and white beaches. She talked about the people who lived there, the land she owned. She hadn’t lied about that. Apparently, she did live on a sugar plantation.

She smiled when she spoke of the native women.

“You need to get well, Shamus, and discover all Barbados has to offer you.”

By the time night fell, Shamus was quiet once again. Too quiet. Nicholas exchanged a worried glance with Emmaline.

“We’ve done everything we can,” he said. “It’s up to God now.”

“I know.” She put her hand over Shamus’s.

“It’s not your fault, Emmaline.”

When she didn’t reply, he looked out the porthole, surprised to see a whole day had passed. Neither of them had left the cabin except to tend to personal needs. Henry arrived every few hours with food, but neither ate much.

“When was the last time you slept?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“You need to sleep. The crew can’t afford for you to get sick as well.” Good Lord, he was looking out for the well-being of a damn pirate. A month ago he would have run through
anyone who mentioned such an absurdity, yet here he was, concerned for Emmaline’s health. She shot him a defiant look.

“It’s not an order, Emmaline. As you told me, you’re the captain of this ship, not me.” He smiled to lighten his words, but it had no effect on her, so he stood, went to his cabin and returned, dragging his mattress with him.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to sleep and I know you won’t leave Shamus.” He dropped the mattress and waved his hand toward it. “Sleep. I’ll take this watch and will wake you in a few hours. You can take the next watch.”

She hesitated, but by the longing look she gave the mattress he could see it beckoned to her.

“I promise to wake you if anything changes. Hell, you’ll be right here, you’ll probably wake on your own.”

She looked at Shamus, then the mattress again.

Nicholas gently tugged her up, surprised all over again by how slight her shoulders were. Shoulders too small to carry the myriad burdens placed upon them.

She collapsed onto the mattress and curled into a ball, asleep almost immediately. Nicholas covered her with a blanket, crouching down on his heels to straighten it. His gaze strayed to her face, to the shadows beneath her eyes. He stroked her cheek, the bruise on her jaw, the shell of her delicate ear. She sighed, snuggling into the mattress and tucking her hand beneath her cheek.

His heart thudded and he had the strange feeling that, for the second time in his life, he’d been attacked by a pirate.

Emmaline woke with a start, but years of self-preservation kept her still until her mind cleared enough to assess any danger surrounding her. It didn’t take long to remember she was in Shamus’s
cabin. She rolled to her side, her gaze immediately going to Nicholas sitting in the chair, his chin to his chest, fast asleep.

She didn’t move, afraid to wake him, even more afraid to look away. He hadn’t put a shirt on, and Shamus’s blood was smeared all over his well-muscled chest. His dark hair needed a trim, his strong jaw a shave. She liked that he looked less proper, more approachable. For once there was no hatred stamped on his face, no disgust in his eyes.

If she were honest, she’d admit the hatred and disgust had been absent the entire time they fought for Shamus’s life.

She quietly rose from the mattress and dropped to her knees at Shamus’s bunk, placing her hand against his forehead.

He was bathed in sweat, but—thank you, God—his skin was cooler. She closed her eyes against the tears of relief and dropped her head to the mattress. Her shoulders shook with the effort to control her rampant emotions. Relief that Shamus had turned a corner and seemed to be on the mend, mixed with the myriad emotions she couldn’t possibly identify, but had to do with Captain Nicholas Addison. He was insufferable, with his views on women. He was dictatorial, sometimes rude, with a sense of entitlement that being a prisoner would never banish.

He had dark blue eyes that saw too much and well-formed lips too quick to offend.

And yet, she was drawn to this irresistible, irritating, irrational man who willingly left his warm bed to help her tend Shamus, though he believed the man was already condemned to a watery grave.

“Emmaline.”

Her head jerked up, and she quickly wiped the tears from her face before she turned to Nicholas.

He looked at her from half-closed lids and held his hand out to her. “Come here, sweetheart.”

The endearment broke her like nothing else could. She physically felt the defenses she put in place eleven years ago crumble at his soft words.

Tears blurred her vision, tears she was incapable of fighting. She found herself nestled on Nicholas’s lap without knowing how she got there, her face buried in his chest, crying so hard her body shook.

He stroked her shoulders and her back. “Let it go, Emmaline. It’s okay to cry.”

But it wasn’t okay. She needed to be strong to finish what she started. For her crew. For Shamus. For herself. If she broke, all was lost.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her to him, anchoring her in place. Even if she wanted to move, he probably wouldn’t let her, and the thought was freeing. She stopped fighting and relaxed into him with a sigh, releasing all the tension from her body.

She didn’t know how long they sat with him cradling her like a babe in arms, her shuddering through her breaths until she was relaxed enough to drift to sleep again.

He felt good, his hard chest beneath her cheek, her ear pressed to his beating heart, his strong arms wrapped around her as if he’d fight the world to protect her. She snuggled closer, even though they couldn’t get any closer.

His chest rose and fell in even, reassuring breaths.

“Emmaline.” He whispered her name and she lifted her head to find their faces close, and their lips even closer.

“Devil take it,” he muttered, before his lips descended on hers.

She’d feared her memories of their first kiss were highly exaggerated. She was wrong. He was everything she remembered and much more. Tender, yet commanding, taking what he wanted and giving tenfold in return.

He boarded the deck of her resistance, not with grappling hooks that tore into her, but with the calm assurance of the most respected pirate. He would get what he came for, damn those who resisted.

She didn’t resist. Like the captain of the merchant vessel her crew attacked, she allowed Captain Nicholas Addison to take what he wanted, with the hope that when all was said and done, he’d leave her with enough to survive.

Nicholas cradled Emmaline’s head in his hand, lacing his fingers through the ebony strands of her unbound hair. His other arm wrapped around her hips, pulling her closer, tethering her to him through the storm of their kiss.

For, no doubt about it, it was a storm. Like the wild hurricane they sailed through, Nicholas marched forward, determined that nothing would stand in his way.

Except there was no resistance. She melted into him, her body fitting perfectly to his, as if Mother Nature designed them that way.

His erection prodded her bottom, but she seemed not to notice, and he was loath to move away. Not now. Not when he finally had her in his arms again, when he was kissing her as he dreamed of kissing her.

Someone coughed. Emmaline stiffened and tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold, unwilling to let her go yet. Ever, if he were to be perfectly honest. But the cough came again and Emmaline jumped off his lap, swiping the back of her hand across her lips, as if she could deny what they’d been doing.

Phin stood in the doorway glaring at them. Nicholas rose, moving to block Emmaline from Phin’s sight, as if the action would undo what had already been done.

“You’re needed up top.” Clearly Phin was speaking to Emmaline, but his combative gaze never left Nicholas’s.

Emmaline looked between them, obviously torn.

“Go,” Nicholas said. “I’ll watch over Shamus.”

Hesitantly, Emmaline moved toward the door, then slid through it, touching Phin’s arm before she left. No words were spoken between them, just the touch that had Nicholas’s temper flaring and his doubts invading.

When Emmaline left, the silence between the two could have been sliced with the dagger
hanging at Phin’s belt.

“You bastard,” Phin snarled.

“Are you two married?” The thought made Nicholas physically ill, but he had to know. If they were married, Nicholas was a dead man. If they were married, Nicholas longed for death.

For a moment Phin seemed taken aback, then he barked out a humorless laugh. “If we were, I would slice the cursed tongue you’re fond of using out of your head and feed it to you.”

Nicholas barely registered the threat. His relief made him light-headed, until another thought occurred to him. “And Mr. Sutherland?”

Phin shook his head. “I should lie, and say he exists, and that he’ll kill you for what you were doing to her.”

“You mean what I was doing
with
her.” He was an honorable man. He’d take full responsibility for plundering Emmaline like she was that damn merchant vessel, but, by God, he would not allow Phin to impugn his honor by insinuating she was unwilling.

Phin flicked a hand at him. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”