Beautiful Tempest(46)

He blanched. "I can't let you out of here. That was growled in my ear by the first mate."

"No, no, I wouldn't get another Jack in trouble, I promise you that. I was just hoping you might have an extra pair of britches I could borrow?"





Chapter Twenty-One




JACQUELINE WAS SITTING WITH her feet up on Bastard's desk.

Her legs crossed, simply because she could since he wasn't there. And why the deuce wasn't he? Other than his brief visit that morning, he'd left her alone the entire day. When he ought to have spent the day in bed to let his wound heal. When she was beyond bored. When she might have flown at him with her nails if he had come in before she calmed down.


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It hadn't been easy to force herself out of the frenzy she'd worked herself into after four hours of pacing and thinking of how badly she'd failed at getting herself, Jeremy, and Percy off a pirate ship heading for the Caribbean and how frantic with worry her mother must be by now. But it wouldn't be too much longer before she had company of one sort or another. Her growling belly convinced her of that.

When she finally heard the key turning, her heart skipped a beat. Which made her blink. What the devil? She was not excited that he was back. And it might not even be him. It could be Jackie with her dinner, so she stayed where she was.

But it was Bastard, and he only paused for a moment when he saw her in his chair. He was still shirtless, so she could see that his wound was still bleeding, though not as much blood was on the bandage as in the morning, so his dressing had been changed at least once today. And he was a bit sunburned.

"Why are you commanding your ship in your condition?" she demanded. "You have a first mate who could do it while you rest and recover."

"Did you miss me?"

He walked slowly toward the desk with that damned smile she hated. She still didn't vacate his chair, so he half sat on the edge of the desk, one foot on the floor, one leg dangling. And that was seeing far too much of him far too close. The man was too masculine, his chest too wide, his arms too thick with muscles, his eyes so light in contrast to his black hair and the stubble on his cheeks. She was having a little trouble breathing.

But he distracted her with "Mortimer might be my first mate and get things done nicely, but he doesn't like acting as captain or taking the wheel."

She scoffed, "You've likely got a half dozen men at least who know how to steer. Even I'm capable . . ."

"Of sailing us back to England?"

She growled to herself for telling him too much. "No, of course not."

"You don't lie very well, Jack. So your father even made a helmsman out of you? What else did he teach you?"

She clamped her mouth shut and bolted out of the chair to head back to the cot, tossing behind her, "The sun burned you. It was really stupid of you to go without a shirt for the entire day."

He didn't reply. Once she was seated in the middle of her narrow bed with her legs crossed, she guessed why. He was still looking at her legs, scrutinizing what she was now wearing.

He even put a hand to his forehead and sighed before he took his seat and, after another long moment of staring at her legs, said cautiously, "I don't need to ask where you got those britches, but do you really want to wear them?"

"Of course I do. It's how I always dress aboard a ship. If I had packed for this trip, you'd see that I have my own britches, tailor-made just for me for ocean travel. Wearing skirts that get tossed about in the wind is so ridiculous." 

"You noticed wind in here, did you?"

He was grinning. She wasn't. Which might be why he quickly said, "But I believe we were discussing why I'm only half-dressed myself. So perhaps you don't know that it's nigh impossible to get blood out of white lawn, or any material, for that matter. I simply prefer not to stain my wardrobe just because you couldn't keep your dagger out of me."

Was he trying to make her feel bad about that? When she'd do it again if she could?

"But I did notice the sun, Jack, when Mort tossed a rain cloak at me. That was before noon or I'd be a lot redder than this."

She ought not to be talking to him at all and wouldn't be if she wasn't starved for conversation. His fault. Everything was his fault. How the deuce had she survived a week of this before? She couldn't remember pacing then, couldn't remember anything except her rage. And where the devil was it now? But she didn't want it now, did she? It might have kept her from noticing the boredom previously, but she had decided to try "nice" this time and then maybe, just maybe, seduce him into taking her home.