Catherine sat on the ledge by the open window, hugging her knees and staring at the night sky. A strong breeze fanned her face and rattled the outside shutters that braced the sides of the window.
She sniffed deeply of the rich air and mumbled, "Rain."
"What was that you said, madam?"
Catherine turned her head sharply, not having heard Lucian enter the room. He filled the doorway with his size. His eyes no longer raged with anger. And his handsome face appeared free of concern. She relaxed. "Rain. It seems like rain."
"Some tonight," he agreed and pulled his shirt from his breeches and over his head, tossing it to land on a threadbare tapestry-covered chair. "Sunshine will see us off in the morning."
"We're leaving Tortuga?" she asked anxiously, and wondered with further anxiety of their next destination.
"My business is complete," he said, and added sternly, "No more questions. Go to bed. We rise early tomorrow."
Sleep was the furthest thing from Catherine's mind. "I'm not tired."
Lucian sat on his shirt on the chair, yanking off his boots. "Did I ask you if you were tired?"
She didn't favor another altercation so she answered simply, "No."
"Then get into bed," he ordered, and stood to strip off his breeches.
Catherine had seen him naked often enough, but tonight his nakedness disturbed her. His broad shoulders promised protection, his full chest thick with muscles offered comfort for her weary head, and his large manhood —
She cast her glance out the window away from what his body could offer her.
"Catherine," he called out to her softly.
She turned reluctantly and he stood closer, though not too close. She kept her eyes focused on his face.
"You need your sleep. It has been a long and tiring day."
"I'm not tired," she insisted, fearing to share a bed with him while feeling so emotionally uncertain.
“Catherine," he tried again.
A strong shake of her head stopped him as he advanced on her and her urgent plea struck his heart. "Please, Lucian."
He understood her reluctance for he experienced the same misgivings. If he crawled in bed with her this night, his plans would be ruined, his revenge unattainable.
"As you wish, madam," he relented, and walked over to the bed and climbed beneath the covers. He turned on his side away from her and forced himself to sleep.
Catherine kept her attention diverted from him. She required a clear, precise mind to calculate her next step.
Stupid.
"I am not," she whispered to herself. Old memories haunted her and she questioned her ability to succeed in rescuing her father from hanging. Too often when she was young she was made to feel intellectually inadequate. Incapable of the smallest chore or lesson.
Her mother had insisted she was lazy, repeating over and over the story of how Catherine caused her mother a long and laborious birth simply because she was too lazy to be born.
When she couldn't tie her ribbons quickly and prettily, her mother accused her of laziness. When she made mistakes on her cross-stitch samplers, she was again accused of laziness. Even when she showed interest in books she was scolded for idling her time away looking at pictures.
Catherine had thought herself foolish and worse, unlovable. She assumed no one would love someone so stupid. Until Randolph Abelard married her mother.
At first she was shy and frightened around him. She feared if he learned of her stupidity he wouldn't love her as a father loved a daughter, so she tried extra hard at her lessons.
Still after all these years she found it difficult to believe how he gallantly defended her against the tutor and then dismissed him. And when she remembered how he began teaching her himself, Catherine smiled and was filled with warm thoughts and pleasant memories.
Her father had taken time out of each day to sit with her and discuss all sorts of subjects. When she had excitedly dragged a book from the shelf and pointed to pictures, attempting to relate a story to him, he had smiled broadly and announced that he would teach her to read and write.
It had been difficult at first and she had cried often, feeling a failure. Her father had wiped her tears away and had offered encouragement. He sat her on his knee and explained that her mind worked at a slower pace when learning her lessons, but that she possessed a spark for knowledge that few people did. All that was necessary was for her to take her time and think things over.
When he began to teach her how to write, she often became confused and messed up her letters and numbers.
Again he cautioned her to take her time and proved his point by questioning her orally on math. She answered his every question correctly and without hesitation. And whenever she doubted herself she would take pen to paper and practice her letters and numbers as she did as a child.