"Please tell me you aspire to be the same?"
She snorted. "I used to when I was a child. I wanted to be like him in every way. But I grew up. I'm aware I can't follow in all of his footsteps."
"I'm devastated to hear it."
"No, you aren't. If I were just like my father, you'd be dead right now."
He smiled. "There is that, and later we'll discuss why you spared-"
"I still wounded you!"
"It's a paltry wound. But come here, Jack, if you want to leave that on."
She knew he was talking about her chemise, which she wasn't about to take off when he was gazing at her so sensually. She stepped out of the pile of wet clothes and bent over to pick them up and took them to the dining table, where she draped them over the chairs to dry. She started back to the cot, hoping he'd forget about any more disrobing.
"Mort will be returning. You might want to get this over with before he comes in. I repeat, come here."
Get what over with? But she swung about and marched to his bed and glared down at him. He didn't notice the glare, he was so intent on her breasts. He lifted his hand and dipped a finger under the low neckline of her chemise, running it slowly over the tops of her breasts. Her nipples tingled as they hardened, but she was still incredulous. Did he really think she'd keep a dagger between her breasts? She almost laughed. But him touching her like that . . .
There was an easy way to stop it, and she even surprised herself when instead of backing away, she pulled the neckline of her chemise right down to the edge of her nipples, telling him, "See? There's nothing there."
It sounded as if he was choking before he said, "Oh, there's definitely something there, but I accept defeat graciously. You no longer have any weapons-that can do physical damage."
What other sort . . . ? She stopped the thought. Really? He considered her attributes a weapon? That was so interesting that she was slow to raise the edge of her chemise again. And meeting his eyes . . .
She swiftly swung about again and returned to her cot to grab his shirt. She put it on before she untied her chemise and drawers and, after turning her back to him, let both undergarments fall to the floor. Then she quickly fastened the shirt down to the last button. She still heard his groan. Ha! He didn't expect that, did he? But really, she wasn't sleeping in wet underwear just for modesty's sake. She even draped those undergarments on the chairs, too. But remembering his warning that Mort would be returning soon, she quickly got under the covers.
Chapter Eighteen
DAMON ENJOYED WATCHING JACK sleep, a little too much. So much fury in such a small bundle, but not when her eyes were closed. But he knew she wouldn't like his taking advantage of her slumber, even innocently, so he pried himself away from her side before she woke.
The morning sun blinded him for a moment when he left his cabin and locked the door. He took the two guards that he'd stationed outside his quarters with him as a precaution. He wished he could trust his own crew, but he couldn't yet. These two new crewmen at least appeared to be following his orders, but nothing had yet occurred to test their loyalty. Nor would it, he vowed, until he was ready.
He headed down the stairs to the lower deck. Two of the three cabins located there were occupied, and the new cook had demanded yet another cabin for his personal culinary supplies. Damon grabbed the key from the wall and opened the first door to his left. Mortimer had been too generous. He hadn't restrained these two, was giving them the freedom of his cabin, if not the ship. Which probably wasn't a good idea, considering how big one of the men was.
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Damon leaned against the doorframe, a pistol in his hand, the two guards behind him, also armed. He should have paid Jack's hirelings a visit yesterday before he'd been wounded. He wasn't exactly going to strike fear into either of them today with a bandage wrapped around his torso, not that he cared to go that route.
The younger of the two, the bigger one, was quite injured, his face bruised and swollen. Damon imagined the rest of him hadn't fared much better. It was too bad it had taken so long to knock him out. Damon should probably send the pirate's doctor in to check on both of them, if Mortimer hadn't already seen to that, not that the pirate sawbones was anything close to a real doctor. Actually, the man might make matters worse. Not for the first time, Damon wished that Dr. Caruthers, whom he had obtained for Andrew, hadn't abandoned them as soon as they'd reached London.
The larger man who had chaperoned Jacqueline was sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, half bent over, an arm protectively about his middle, and he didn't change his position when the door opened. His friend had pulled a chair over to the bedside next to him. This fellow, who looked older and was rather portly, was a little too well dressed for destitute gentry, but Damon supposed even poor ones would want to keep up appearances.