"This will hurt," she said, but yanked the thread out before she finished the warning.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
She managed not to grin, but glanced up at his face before she straightened. Damn, not again. Those sensual bright eyes of his, pinning her, stirring her insides, stealing her breath and voice. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, breathed again.
"Jack?"
"I was doing that imagining thing again," she lied, and moved away from him.
"So was I," he said in husky tones.
Chapter Twenty-Three
YOU SURE YOU WANT her doing that?"
Jacqueline didn't glance at Mortimer, who'd entered the cabin silently and was now standing next to her. Her cheeks were still hot from that mesmerizing moment she'd just shared with her nemesis. It had been a mistake to get this close to him again, and she wasn't even done yet!
"She's a competent seamstress," Bastard calmly told his friend.
"She's a competent wound maker," Mortimer rejoined caustically.
Belligerence she could more easily handle, and being nice to Bastard's disagreeable first mate wasn't part of her plan. "If you've business here, state it, then get out. I need full concentration to apply this needle." She picked up the needle and passed it twice through the flame before pointing at Bastard. "And you get on the bed. I'm not getting a kink in my back for you."
He was grinning widely as he stood up and went to the bed. But Mortimer crossed his arms and demanded, "Why are you willing to tend the wound you gave him?"
"I didn't volunteer, he asked me to. But are you under the impression that proper stitching isn't going to hurt?"
"So you just want to cause him more pain?"
"Of course, why else would I be doing this?" she quipped. "You can leave now."
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm sleeping in here again tonight."
That gave her pause. "Why?"
"You don't want a chaperone?"
She snorted.
Mortimer crossed over to the dining table to get a plate off the larger tray Jackie had brought before adding, "I was talked into giving up my cabin for the prisoners. Damon insisted I share his."
Damon? Bastard was giving up his name this time? Or had Mort just revealed something he shouldn't. But he didn't look as if he'd just blundered, and when she glanced at Bastard or, rather, Damon, he didn't look as if he cared. What the devil was different this time?
She'd asked for his name before, but he'd refused to give it. She'd been kept utterly isolated before, at least until Catherine had been allowed into the cabin to convince her to eat and, when she wouldn't, had let slip that Damon was her lover. There was no accounting for taste between criminals, she supposed, but really, the man would have done better with anyone other than that nasty witch. But this time, sailors, first mates, even cabin boys, had been let in to see her. Something was definitely different. Damon hadn't said what and probably wouldn't if asked. But she still tried.
"Damon is your real name?"
"I prefer Bastard."
"So do I," she snapped.
She should have known he wouldn't enlighten her, but realized it could simply be because she would be dying this time along with her father. So it didn't matter whom she could identify or what names she knew.
That thought made her grip the needle like a weapon, but only briefly. Be nice! Honey, not spit and fire. She took a deep breath and followed Damon to the bed, where he had lain down to accommodate her. Damon. The name had a nice ring to it, but she wasn't sure she'd call him that when she was too used to calling him Bastard. She supposed she could try, in the interest of her plan.
"This will hurt," she warned as she sat down on the edge of the bed. "The wound needs at least four stitches to keep it closed, but then you should be able to dress properly tomorrow without staining your shirts, with another bandage to guarantee it."
"Might as well make it five stitches then, just to be sure."
"Really?"
"Have at it, Jack, so we can eat. I apologize for delaying your dinner. It's been a long, tiring day."
The moment he'd entered the room, she'd forgotten how hungry she was. Now, she felt nervous. This wasn't white cloth pulled tight over an embroidery frame, but real skin, his skin.
She met his eyes. "Maybe you should get foxed first?"
He chuckled. "No, I'll be fine and so will you. Imagine you still hate me."
She pressed the needle through, but had to pause when her stomach churned. She wished she could close her eyes, but couldn't. Just get it over with! You do hate him with every fiber of your body, but imagine he's white cloth. . . .
She leapt away from the bed as soon as she tied off the last stitch and almost knocked down Mortimer, who'd come up silently behind her to watch. "That is a neat bit of stitching, girl."