Defying a Pirate Page 4

  The Pirate wasn’t ugly, and he was certainly more tidy in person than she’d expected from someone in his profession. She wasn’t sure she would have identified him as such if she’d passed him on the street. He’d still be noteworthy, she admitted. There was something commanding about him that would be noticeable in all circumstances. He’d looked a little more wild in the midst of battle, where he’d been deep in concentration—commanding his ship with a stern look on his face. He’d looked every bit the enemy then. She hadn’t noticed at the time, but he was well-groomed, clean-shaven with his dark hair short and well kept. There were no wigs in sight; he seemingly didn’t try to emulate the higher echelons of society by donning them.

  “Cat got your tongue, Miss Montague? Or are you happy just to study me?” he said. Gemma snapped her eyes away, embarrassed that she had been caught watching him.

  She couldn’t think of anything to say. “It’s not too late to take me back,” she said, her voice not quite hiding the quiver of fear and uncertainty she felt.

  “Such a meek mouse. It astounds me that the creature in front of me is the same woman who commanded a ship against me.”

  The insult rubbed, but Gemma dismissed it. It was not of primary importance to be given due respect by this man. She hadn’t done it for respect; she’d done it so Vivecka and she would not suffer a pirate boarding.

  “If we are boarded and inspected, you will hang for this,” she said more forcefully.

  “If that were to happen, Miss Montague, I would certainly hang, but for crimes more severe than stealing a girl from her bed.”

  This news only made her stomach more uncomfortable. He more or less admitted that this was the lighter side of the crimes he’d committed.

  “Don’t fear, they will get around to hanging me one day.” He leaned back in his chair and leisurely sipped from his wine glass. “Would you like some wine?”

  Gemma shook her head; she could not afford to dull her wits around this man. He was watching her all the time and Gemma felt every inch of the uncomfortable scrutiny.

  “Now, where does a girl like you learn to command a ship?”

  “My father,” she responded quietly as she ate. There was silence as he waited for elaboration, but she felt no compulsion to gratify him.

  “He was a Naval man?”

  “No, not technically. He was a curator.”

  “A curator?” the Pirate repeated disbelievingly.

  “A librarian actually. He was the curator at the Naval Historical Reference Library.” Gemma noted the increasingly surprised look on the Pirate’s face when she explained her father’s commission. She was not about to stress the point further that not only had he been beaten by a woman, but a daughter of a librarian no less. It would not serve her purposes at the moment to goad the man who had stolen her and held her well-being and honor in his hands. She reminded herself that it was only his interest in her dowry that kept her safe.

  He got up abruptly and strode out the door of the cabin. Gemma sighed her relief as the tension in the room lightened immediately with his departure.

  Chapter 6

  The Pirate didn’t return. The cabin had grown dark and Gemma had done nothing to remedy it. She nibbled on some cheese, but her stomach was too unsteady to feel hungry. As the moon rose, she grew increasingly nervous. She knew he wouldn’t force her, but he would still try something. Her inexperience put her in a bad position as she had little understanding of what to expect or what to watch for.

  Her heart skipped a beat when the door knob twisted and he stepped inside. She felt his presence take over the room.

  “You’re sitting in the dark,” he stated. “Are you so used to servants catering for you, you are incapable of lighting a lamp?”

  “I didn’t know where the matches were.” His accusation offended her. She was a capable person—she’d beaten him after all. Again, something she was not going to draw attention to at this point.

  She heard the sound of a match being struck, the small light showing nothing but itself as it moved into the glass surroundings of a lamp. Soft light shone through the cabin as the lamp ignited, not quite reaching the far corners. A further rush of nervousness claimed her as the light revealed the man she had tried very hard not to think about.

  He shrugged off his coat and threw it on the chair behind his desk, turned back to the dining table and tore himself a piece from the bread loaf. The tray of food they’d received during the day was obviously to serve their needs for the evening as well. He turned to look at her while he ate, the silence in the room was deafening. His slate eyes seemed black in the light as they sparkled with the reflection of the flame.

  His clothes were simple, white linen and leather—too simple for the garb of a gentleman. His attire made her more nervous because it spelled out how much more foreign he was than men she was familiar with. She didn’t know what would happen now, if his seduction would begin. She would be able to make a determination if only she knew more about such things.

  When he’d finished the bread, he tugged his shirt out of his black leather pants and over his head, leaving his chest completely bare—revealing the sculptured muscles around his shoulders, chest and abdomen. Gemma had seen the occasional bare chest in Jamaica, but it was a state of undress strictly discouraged when there were women around and the men scrambled to cover themselves. Her breath hitched with fear, knowing that whatever he’d planned, he was going to do now. He used his foot to secure the heel of the boot he was wearing and pulled his other foot out, then repeated with the other.

  His hands moved to the tie of his pants, his eyes never leaving hers and he undid it and pushed the heavy material down. He stepped out of them, then stood up revealing all of himself. He had no shame about his complete nakedness; he did nothing to cover himself, or feel any kind of embarrassment that he was being observed. Gemma wanted to pull her eyes away from his form but she couldn’t—there was a naked man standing in front of her. The only naked men she’d seen were in the illustrated books of Renaissance Italian sculpture that she’d sneaked a peak at—which seemingly was not far from the truth, except that one part, which was apparently underestimated by the Italians. Her nervousness was momentarily overcome by the sight presented to her, until her modestly finally reasserted itself and she quickly averted her eyes.

  Thoughts were racing through her head as she sat in her corner, worrying about what was to happen next. She was afraid, but there was also a tiny bit of curiosity—like any girl, she had naturally wondered what happens between men and women. But he had promised he wouldn’t use force. Well, not promised exactly, incentivized, as she wouldn’t trust his word on anything—she’d bought his compliance.

  He took the lamp and then stepped forward. Gemma almost jumped as he came toward her, feeling her body prepare to fight. He continued walking and stood just in front of her, placing the lamp on a small table next to the bed. He was standing above her and she refused to look up, holding her breath as she heard him move, then she recognized the creak of the bed ropes as he placed his weight on the mattress.

  Looking up, she saw him lying in the bed with his arm behind his head and the blankets drawn up over his nakedness. She sat still, but he moved no more, ignoring her.

  “It’s late and I’m turning the light out now,” he said. “You might want to get in bed, unless you are planning on sitting up in the dark.”

  “I am not getting into bed with you.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said and extinguished the lamp. The darkness of the room was oppressive. As her eyes readjusted to the darkness, she sat there in wonderment that nothing had happened. She wondered if this was some kind of test, because as a seduction technique, it appeared flawed.

  She heard him shift in the bed before settling again. Gemma’s agitation slowly slipped away leaving her feeling chilled. A cold dampness had taken over the room, the chill of the winter sea filling every space. Her dress was not heavy enough to keep her warm during the night, she
noted. She needed to find something to cover herself or she would have to get into bed with him. She didn’t know what kind of control men had in such circumstances, but she wasn’t about to test the theory.

  Jack woke at dawn; light was just streaming into the windows along the back. It took him a moment to realize that there was something unusual about the day—the girl. He looked around and noted that she wasn’t lying next to him, which he would have expected. Searching the room for her, he found her lying in the corner she’d occupied the previous evening, lying under his coat. She would have spent an extremely uncomfortable night lying on the hard wooden floor. He smiled at her stubbornness, there was something in her after all; he’d seen little glimpses in her, actions of the woman he’d seen on the man-of-war commanding a whole crew.

  Rising from the bed, he watched as she stirred slightly, pulling his coat tighter around her shoulders. “The bed is nice and warm if you wish to warm yourself,” he said. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, her eyes moving down along his body. He noted her curiosity—the curiosity which would be the key to her undoing, he determined. He would swear she’d never seen a man in all his glory before.

  Moving quickly, she darted into the bed, pulled the covers over her. He could well imagine how stiff her joints were. He would have to do something about this in the coming evening; he couldn’t very well have her fall ill and die before they got to the Caribbean. If her own discomfort didn’t take care of it, he would have to take action, but she would come to realize that they could have very pleasant evenings together.

  She still wasn’t his type, her breasts were too small and she was too thin in all respects. English roses by nature didn’t have the qualities he liked in women—nice round figures, fiery characters and complete honesty in what they wanted from their men. English maidens failed in every single one of those categories.

  Walking over to his washbowl, he prepared the soap for his shave. He could see the girl watching him through the mirror as he worked the blade over his chin. Seducing her was going to be ridiculously easy. He finished and ran his fingers over his chin and neck, soothing the skin. After brushing his teeth, he ran his fingers through his hair a few times before deciding to dress.

  It was going to be a long day, gray and rainy with nothing much to do—nothing to do but tease his captive. He would have to behave though; he needed her to get past her wariness of him. She tensed in his presence and he needed her to get beyond that and the only way to do it was to spend time together. He knew he wouldn’t really see the girl underneath him until her fear was dispatched. Normally, he garnered and fed fear, but it didn’t serve his purposes now; saying that, he wasn’t as skilled at alleviating fear as he was drawing it—not something he normally bothered with.

  He needed to devise some way of dealing with the girl. A whole three weeks stretched ahead of them, in which to get the girl to a state where she’d gaze upon him with complete adoration. This bet might turn into a bit of a nuisance because they could be well on their way by now, but he also appreciated a challenge. Perhaps it was the challenge she presented that had sent him traveling over an ocean to get her. He looked back at the girl, who’d pulled the blankets up to her nose.

  He hoped she wasn’t too stubborn because she was a woman and he would not appreciate three weeks stuck in this cabin with a woman without having her. He wasn’t sure that even a thousand pounds would hold his resolve that long. One of them would win this contest and he was a sore loser.

  Gathering up his coat from the floor, he swung it around his shoulders. It smelled of her, the taint and subtle musk of a woman, intermixed with lavender—a scent that would likely linger.

  Chapter 7

  Gemma had the cabin to herself all morning. She could hear the men working above her; orders shouted and carried out. She had watched him in the morning as he got up and went about his grooming. He had absolutely no shame in his own nakedness. It gave her some time to study the man and his form, which was pleasing. So different from her own.

  She was expecting his return for the midday meal. In the cabin, she couldn’t keep track of time, but the cook eventually came with the meal—roast pork with fennel and peas. He certainly ate well, she conceded; at least when recently sailed and the fresh supplies lasted. She knew that the fare would turn more salty and stodgy as the long voyage went on. Her stomach rumbled with hunger.

  Again she heard the heavy steps above her head and she knew he was on his way. Her heartbeat quicken as she waited for the knob to turn. She didn’t feel ready for him to be there again.

  The energy changed when he stepped into the cabin. His dark eyes sought her out and Gemma felt the contact of them on her form. She didn’t scurry back into the corner this time, but stood her ground. Proceeding silently, he didn’t say anything, strode to the table and surveyed the fare.

  “My cook is French,” he said leaning slightly over the table. “A temperamental fellow at times—drunk more often than not—but he cooks better than any man I’ve met.” He took his seat and Gemma tentatively followed suit. “Care to serve?—as you are the current mistress of this fine abode.”

  “I am not the mistress here,” she said, her voice keeping steady. “I am a prisoner.”

  “I will concede the point,” he smiled. “But then I don’t generally keep my prisoners in my cabin.”

  Gemma recognized the threat in the statement. Grudgingly, she got up and started carving the meat. He watched her movements and she hoped it at least made him nervous that she had a sharp knife in her hand.

  She placed cuts of meat on his plate, spooned some vegetables and poured a lashing of gravy. She then served herself and they ate in silence. The pork was delicious. The cook was gifted—not the best she had ever had—but she supposed in his company, such talent was less common.

  “Have you always been a pirate?” she asked when the meal was over.

  “I was a child once.” Gemma threw him a look at the facetious answer. “Are you chiding me, Miss Montague?”

  She was, she conceded. “This is your ship and I am the prisoner—I suppose you can steer the conversation any way you wish.”

  He considered her for a while. “We were privateers not long ago, left to our own devices while serving the Crown, but the King felt we’d served his purposes and he turned on us.”

  “You had the support of the King?”

  “We did, but now we are hunted. In response, we pay particular attention to the British ships that sail these waters.”

  “Is that why you attacked my ship?”

  “It wasn’t your ship Miss Montague, you commandeered it.”

  “The situation was dire; we could not afford to be taken by pirates.”

  “Yet your outcome has not changed,” he said slowly while picking up his wine glass.

  She glared at him.

  “It is not too late to take me back.”

  “Why would I do that when I so enjoy your company?” His tone was light, but stated in such a way it communicated that there was no point to this line of suggestion. Gemma could see in his eyes that there was no leeway for negotiation—she was going to the Caribbean whether she liked it or not.

  “And what happens after?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You cannot take me half around the world and then leave me somewhere with no means and completely unprotected. It would be unconscionable and callous.”

  “Unconscionable and callous—I have actually been called worse,” he said with a grin.

  Gemma looked down in her lap. She wanted to cry again. This was horrible—he was horrible. She felt disappointment grip her insides. “You make light when the consequences for me are grave. I don’t know why I am even discussing this with you; it’s not like your promises count for anything.”

  Stillness settled in the room. “My word stands as a rule,” he said and she could hear steel in his voice. “I just don’t give it often or frivolously.”

  “You think my concerns f
rivolous?” she said with incredulity.

  He closed his eyes slowly like he was swearing inside his head. “No,” he said pointedly, “and I do have the means to see you safely returned—but I am a pirate and there will be a price.”

  Gemma winced in frustration because for a moment, she thought he was going to be honorable. Abruptly rising from her chair, she started pacing quickly around the cabin. “You’re despicable,” she said along with a string of insults to his honor as a gentleman. He wasn’t a gentleman, he’d made that clear, but it was still the worst insult she knew. “And your battle skills, really!”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You be careful what you say,” he warned.

  “Overconfident.”

  “Or the price for my word will go up.”

  Itching to continue—to vent her anger and frustration—she forced herself to silence. “You’re horrid,” she finally said.

  “I am a pirate and I’m supposed to be seducing you, so yes, there is a price.” He swirled the red liquid around in his glass.

  “I’ll find my own way,” she said and turned from him.

  “Come now,” he said teasingly. “The price is not high—your chastity will remain intact even, if you choose. A small price for eliciting my protection and your safe return to your family. It will save you a world of worry, not to mention real danger. The places we are going, you will need my protection.”

  Gemma did not stop pacing, but she listened with alarm. She couldn’t even image what dangers she would be in, but if a pirate was concerned about her safety, she would likely have to be. “What price?” she finally said.