The Buccaneer(62)

And then there were her pearls, white and creamy against her skin. Always around her neck. Always hanging down past her belly. Always feeling cool against his skin when she cuddled beside him during the night. He had never seen her without them. They lay pooled in the curve of her belly.

Concern gripped him. He had seen men lose ten pounds in one day, twenty in two and dead by the third. He had to get something, even if only liquid, into her stomach and force it to stay down. He slipped his shirt over her head and worked it down her body gently.

Her eyes had closed minutes ago, and not wanting to disturb her needed rest, he stood and carefully placed her legs beneath the sheet, then tucked it around her waist.

He returned to her side on the bed and watched her take each breath. Her chest rose and fell normally, no hampered breathing plagued her. Thank God.

What was it about the silver-haired beauty that haunted him so? His passion for her seemed unnatural. He ached to possess her, to taste her forbidden fruit and see if the price he paid would be worth it.

But his thirst for revenge interfered and the fact that she was Abelard's daughter and a harlot tormented him.

He could hear Santos's warning. He shook his head against his strange thoughts. He had felt cheated, denied, and furious when he had discovered she was no innocent. Her pure beauty and caring nature belied her true character. She could fool the devil himself.

The thought startled him. How many times had people thought him the devil, hence the name Lucifer.

Men argued that he possessed no soul.

Cruel and heartless he was, women had cried.

Other pirates gave him a wide berth whether it was on land or sea. He was feared. He was hated. He was the infamous Lucifer. And he owed it all to Abelard. His hatred of the man had fostered a resolve, a promise to stop at nothing to see his destruction.

"Lucian," Catherine moaned, and his hand covered hers.

"Do you feel sick again?" he asked.

She nodded and he left her to return with the ceramic washbowl. He slipped his arm beneath her and hoisted her up.

She began to choke and gag.

"Easy, angel," he warned. "There is nothing left in your stomach to eliminate, it but protests."

The dry heaves racked her body once again and Lucian cursed soundly beneath his breath as he held her through the useless heaving.

He had settled her comfortably and once again she slept.

Santos entered the cabin. "Cook is feeling better. He sent the chamomile tea and bread and his regards that she's well soon."

"She won't be if I don't get something to stay in her stomach," he said seriously, his growing worries evident in his bleak expression.

"Do you need help?" Santos offered.

"I need your help on deck, making certain everything is attended to before the storm hits. I don't expect a serious gale, but I prefer safety over assumption."

Santos nodded. "I'll see to it." He hurried to the door, the clouds outside the window having grown darker and more menacing.

"Santos."

Lucian's voice halted him and he looked to him for further instructions.

"Am I really blind?"

Santos spoke seriously. "Only you can answer that question, my friend."

o0o



His question was answered several days later as Catherine, fit and healthy from Lucian's gentle care, related a compelling and titillating tale of a particularly talented earl.

"Danford possessed the most wicked tongue," Catherine said, running her silver comb through her hair in preparation for bed. "It danced and twirled, Lord, but he could do the most imaginative things with it."

Lucian had only entered the cabin twenty minutes before, having purposely kept himself from her presence. He no longer doubted her innocence. She didn't possess an ounce. As soon as she was well she talked endlessly of her many lovers.

When he had tended her she seemed different, almost as if she were another person. She spoke of no other men. There was only him. She wanted only him, needed only him, and relied on only him. She hadn't even whispered her father's name — only his — Lucian.

"Lucian, did you hear me?" Catherine asked.

He stood in front of his desk shirtless, having discarded it when he entered the cabin. He tossed the chart he held down on the desk and shook his head at her in answer.

He didn't want to hear any more talks of tongues, kisses, naked bodies, beds, and positions, whatever. He didn't want to think of her having sex with so many men in so many positions with so many tongues licking and probing and —

"Then I shall repeat myself. And, Lucian you should really take care to listen. After all, if you do surrender to our passion you would know exactly what pleasures me," she scolded.

What would pleasure him at this very moment was to gag her mouth with a cloth and tie her to the main mast.