The Devil's Necklace

She wasn’t new to the game, which could help his cause or hinder it, depending on the sort of lovers she had known over the years. He skimmed a hand lightly over her hip, enjoying the sweetly feminine curves, the roundness of her bottom. He ran a hand along her thigh, down her calf, reached for the hem of her gown—

The shriek of outrage that erupted from the opposite side of the bed made his ears start to ring. She leaped out of the bunk as if it were on fire and whirled to face him, slim feet braced apart, hands out in front of her as if she faced a monster from hell. He almost found himself smiling.

“Don’t you touch me!”

“I believe you’ve made your dislike of touching more than clear.” He rolled to the side of the bed and reached for his breeches, dragged them on over his hips and began to work the buttons up the front.

She raced over to the desk and began a mad search for the letter opener. He cursed himself as she snatched it up and held it protectively in front of her.

“You don’t need that. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You were…you were…trying to…to…”

“Take it easy. The way you were curled up against me, I thought we both might enjoy ourselves.” God, she was beautiful. With her auburn hair tumbled around her shoulders and her cheeks flushed with anger…Christ, just looking at her made him hard all over again.

He moved a little closer but not enough to frighten her. “Actually, I was hoping we could come to some sort of an arrangement.”

She eyed him warily, the letter opener still gripped in her hand. “What kind of arrangement?”

“I’m a man, Miss Chastain. Men have certain needs. I’m sure you’re well aware of that.”

The letter opener trembled in her fingers. “Are you…are you saying you expect me to service your…your needs?”

His mouth faintly curved. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way. As I said, I think it could be pleasurable for both of us. And beneficial for you, as well.”

Her eyebrows drew warily together. “You’re talking about some sort of deal.”

“I am. If you agree and I’m satisfied with your performance, I might be willing to intercede on your behalf with the authorities when we get back to London.”

She swallowed. For the first time he realized she was fighting not to cry. Why that bothered him he could not say.

She moistened her lips and he noticed that they trembled. “No.”

“That’s it? Just no?”

She simply shook her head. She looked innocent and vulnerable, and seeing her that way made his chest feel oddly tight.

“If you try to force me, I’ll fight you with every ounce of my strength.”

She would. He could see it in her face. The determination was there, behind the faint shimmer of tears.

“I won’t force you,” he said softly. “That was never my intention.” But neither would he let her off so easily. She was Harmon Jeffries’s mistress and he wanted her. Badly. Sooner or later, he would have her.

“How…how do I know you are telling me the truth?”

“I’m many things, Miss Chastain, but a liar isn’t one of them. Put the letter opener down.”

Her fingers merely tightened around the handle.

“I said put it down.” He moved closer, beginning to get annoyed. He wasn’t used to people disobeying his orders. He wasn’t about to tolerate it from Grace Chastain.

“Stay back—I’m warning you.”

“And I am warning you. Put the letter opener down or suffer the consequences.”

She bit her plump bottom lip and it made him want to kiss her. Christ, he couldn’t remember feeling such lust for a woman. That she belonged to Harmon Jeffries made him want her even more.

He circled to the left and Grace circled right, the blade still gripped in her hand.

“You are begging for trouble, Miss Chastain.”

“Perhaps you are the one in trouble.”

He did smile then. A rare, sincere smile that felt odd on his face. He feigned left, dove right, caught her wrist and snatched the letter opener from her hand. He tossed it across the room at the same instant he hauled her hard against his chest, buried his fingers in her heavy auburn hair, and dragged her mouth up to his for a deep, plundering kiss.

Heat washed through him in a powerful sweep of lust. He kissed her a moment more, then let her go and stepped away, saw that her wide green eyes were huge with surprise and disbelief. His heart was pumping, his erection throbbing. He was pleased to note from the rise and fall of her breasts and the high color in her cheeks that he wasn’t the only one who had been affected.

“Think about what I said,” he told her softly. “Perhaps a bargain with the devil wouldn’t be so bad.” Turning away from her, he snatched up the rest of his clothes, picked up the letter opener and headed out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Grace stared at the door where her captor had disappeared. He was a savage. A barbarian. She didn’t trust him to keep his word, had no reason to believe he would.

Dear God, how she wished she were back on board the Lady Anne.

Unconsciously, her fingers came up to her lips. Though his kiss had been brief, it had been extremely thorough, a hard, punishing kiss that should have repulsed her. Instead, her heart pounded and her head swam until she feared she might swoon. There had been no gentleness, nothing sweet or tender. Still, it was a kiss she would never forget.

How could that be?

She thought of the bargain the captain had proposed. It was obvious he knew of the escape from Newgate that she had engineered and yet they sailed not toward London but away. She knew she should be frightened—and she was. But there was something inside her that refused to cower before him.

Her stomach growled. Grace shoved back her tangled mass of hair and walked over to the cheval glass in the corner. Heavy auburn curls hung limply around her shoulders and her aqua gown was a dreary, wrinkled mess. She lifted her gown, tore a length of lace from the hem of her chemise, and used it to tie back her hair. She longed for a bath and something to eat and wondered if Captain Sharpe intended to punish her by starving her to death.

As if her thoughts had been transported, a soft knock sounded at the door. Thinking of the protection offered by the letter opener, she cast a wishful glance at the desk but the weapon was gone.

She sighed and started toward the door. If the captain or his men had wanted to hurt her, they could have done so last night. Pausing for an instant, she took a steadying breath and pulled the door open.

The last thing she expected was the sight of a young blond boy standing in the corridor, holding a breakfast tray in his hands.

“Mornin’, miss. Capt’n thought ye might be hungry. He sent this down for yer breakfast.” The smell of freshly cooked porridge drifted up from the bowl in the center of the tray. A large round orange, nicely sliced into manageable pieces, sat next to the bowl, along with a steaming mug of tea, a pitcher of cream and a jar of molasses for the porridge. She could hardly believe it.

Her mouth watered. “Well, the captain was entirely correct—I am hungry. It was generous of him to think of sending the tray.” Generous—unless it was merely a ploy to secure her agreement to his proposal. In which case, his strategy would fail.

“What is your name?” Grace asked the boy, no more than twelve years old and small for his age, with eyes as green as her own. For the first time she noticed the carved wooden crutch tucked under his left arm.

“Freddie, miss. Me name’s Freddie Barton.”

Grace ignored the disturbing crutch and pasted on a smile. “Well, Freddie, you may set the tray down right over there.” She pointed to a small round Sheraton table with two matching chairs, thinking how odd it was that the devil captain would employ a crippled cabin boy.

“Yes, miss.” Freddie started for the table and Grace frowned as she noticed the bent, twisted shape of his left leg. Then a noise sounded in the passage behind him and something shot into the cabin through the crack left in the door, brushing so close to the boy’s malformed limb he nearly toppled over.

“Blast ye, Schooner!” He set the tray on the table a bit unsteadily and Grace followed his gaze to the yellow-striped tabby that had settled under the chair.

“Ye like cats?” he asked, his glance sliding toward the animal who was hidden out of sight except for its tail.

“Why, yes, I do.”

Freddie looked relieved. “Schooner won’t bother ye none. And ’e’s a very good mouser.”

She bit back a smile. “Then I suppose I won’t have to worry about mice in the cabin.”

“No, miss.” He looked over at the orange-striped tail, swishing back and forth beneath the chair. “Schooner’ll let ye know when he’s ready to go back out.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“Capt’n says I’m to look out for ye. If there’s anything ye need, ye just need to tell me.”

There was plenty she needed—like getting off the ship—but she didn’t think Freddie would be able to manage the trick. She walked over to the table and surveyed the tray of food, her stomach growling again. She was hungry, but she needed information more than food and the boy could be a well of knowledge.

“How long have you worked for Captain Sharpe?”

“Not long a’tall, miss. Capt’n only just got hisself another ship. Me pap sailed with him, though. Got hisself kilt along with the rest o’ the crew sometime back.”

“I’m sorry, Freddie. What happened?”

“Well, ye see, miss, they was fightin’ the Frenchies. The bloody bastards captured the ship and tossed the capt’n, me pap and the rest into prison.” He reddened as he realized he had used several colorful swear words. “Beg pardon, miss.”

“That’s all right, Freddie. It sounds like they were bad men, indeed.”

The boy leaned on his crutch. “Capt’n lost the Sea Witch and his men—all but Angus and Long-boned Ned. Ye should hear the tales Ned tells. Ned says Capt’n Sharpe fought like a demon. He says the capt’n—”

“I think the lady knows as much as she cares to about the captain,” said a deep voice from the doorway. “Run along, Freddie. Angus has need of you.”

The boy flushed guiltily, turned and stumped on his crutch out of the room, working the long wooden device so skillfully it seemed attached to his body. Freddie closed the cabin door and Grace forced herself to face the tall man standing just inside the threshold.

“Your porridge is getting cold.”

She flicked a glance that way. “Yes…thank you for sending it.”

His dark look said he wished he hadn’t. “I thought you should keep up your strength. I can tell you firsthand, the food in prison is less than palatable.”

Her stomach twisted. She had to remember this man was her enemy. She had committed a crime, yes, but Ethan Sharpe wasn’t a magistrate. He had no right to sit in judgment.

Her appetite now gone, she walked over to the table and sat down to eat. Ignoring the sound of his footfalls moving about the cabin, she managed to finish the porridge, but her stomach rebelled at the thought of eating the orange.

The captain walked over to the table, stopped right be side her. “Eat the orange. You wouldn’t want to get scurvy and lose all those pretty white teeth.”

Her lips thinned at the effort to hold back a nasty retort. It was none of his business what she did or did not eat. On the other hand, she had heard about the perils of scurvy. She devoted herself to the orange.

It was sweet and wet and delicious. With a sigh of pleasure, she wiped her mouth with the linen napkin on the tray and shoved back her chair. The captain was seated at his desk, writing in some sort of ledger.

Grace walked up behind him. “I want to know why you brought me here. I want to know what you are planning to do with me.”

He turned, unfolded his tall frame from the chair, and stood towering above her. She felt as if she had goaded a panther while standing in its cage.

His pale blue eyes bored into her. “And I want to know why you helped a traitor escape the gallows.”

There it was, out in the open at last. “What makes you so certain I did?”

“I have my sources…very reliable sources. Just as Harmon Jeffries had his.”

The sound of her father’s name, spoken with such venom, tightened the knot in her stomach. She had only recently discovered her father’s existence, only come to know him through the letters he had sent her over the years, letters her mother had hidden away. The letters had touched her; they’d proven that instead of abandoning her as she had believed, he had never truly forgotten her.

She had helped him escape, committed a heinous crime in the eyes of the law, and now she couldn’t afford to be goaded into any sort of admission. She had no idea who the man really was or what his intentions might be.

She ignored his question as flatly as he had ignored hers. “I demand you take me to Scarborough. That is where I was headed when you so vilely abducted me. That is where I still wish to go.”

He laughed without humor. “You are quite an amazing young woman, Miss Chastain. Surprisingly resourceful and infinitely entertaining. I find I am beginning to enjoy our little cat and mouse game.”

“Well, I am not enjoying it—not one bit.”

“No?” His eyes ran over her, icy as the sea, yet she could feel the heat in them, the hunger. “Perhaps in time…”

Her breathing hitched. She turned away from him, suddenly conscious of her dishevel. She smoothed an errant strand of hair, wishing desperately for a bath and fresh clothes.

The gesture must have betrayed her thoughts.

“In a day or two, we’ll be stopping for supplies. I’ll see what I can do about finding you something to wear.”

She raised her chin and looked into his face. “I have all the clothes I need—in my cabin on the Lady Anne.”

The captain’s jaw hardened. “Unfortunately for you, you are no longer aboard the Lady Anne.”

Four

Two more days passed. Grace sat on the captain’s wide bed in her rumpled aqua gown, Schooner nestled in her lap. The big orange tabby purred loudly, an oddly comforting sound. She was trapped aboard what could only be called a pirate ship, sailing God knew where, her fate as yet undetermined.

She couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t more afraid.

Grace sighed as she absently stroked Schooner’s fur. Perhaps it was because she had survived thus far unharmed and her treatment had not been too ill. Wearing the man’s cotton night rail that Freddie had brought her, still unwilling to trust her captor, Grace had fallen asleep each night as she had the first, sitting in the straight-back chair behind the captain’s desk. Each morning she had awakened in his bed, curled on her side beneath the covers. The only difference was, each of those mornings, she had awakened alone.

Grace knew he had been there, sleeping next to her as he had that first night. She could see the indentation of his head on the pillow, smell the faint, masculine scent of him, something that reminded her of the sea.

Her real fear lay not in what the captain might do, but what would happen if he returned her to London and handed her over to the authorities. So far, the ship continued a course that carried her away from the city and as long as they weren’t sailing to London, there was always a ray of hope.

At least he had been decent enough to loan her a brush and comb. It was an exquisite set, silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Probably a gift for one of his paramours. Grace was simply grateful to be able to brush and braid her hair.

In the past two days, she had rarely seen the devil captain. She was grateful for that, as well. With his hot glances and cool disdain, the man was hardly fit company. Still, even with Freddie and Schooner to help pass the time, she felt restless and confined. She paced the cabin, feeling as if the walls were closing in, her irritation building. The cabin wasn’t a prison cell and yet it felt like one.

The next time she saw him she was going to demand he take her up on deck. She was used to a good bit of exercise, walking along the shops on Bond Street or strolling in the park. During the day, she cracked open one of the portholes above the bed, but it wasn’t the same as being out of doors, feeling the salt spray against her face and filling her lungs with brisk sea air. If it weren’t for the motley crew aboard the ship, she would have gone up by herself.

Grace made a turn at the foot of the bed and started pacing back the other way. She heard the light knock, recognized Freddie’s small hand and went over to open the door. Surprise hit her at the sight of the steaming copper tub being carried by two men in the crew, one of them the dark man with all the tattoos.

“’Tis rainwater, miss.” Freddie stumped out of the way so the men could bring the tub into the cabin. “We hit a squall last night. Gave us a chance to refill the cisterns. Capt’n thought ye might like a bath.”

She nearly sighed at the notion.

“Where ye want it, miss?”

“In front of the fire would be nice.” She hurried that way, stood back while the men set the tub on the floor in front of the low-burning flames.

“There’s linen towels in the cupboard just there.” Freddie pointed. “Shall I get one for ye?”

“I’ll get it. Thank you, Freddie.” The boy and crewmen left the cabin and Grace turned her attention to the tub. In the evening, she had been forced to remove her clothing in order to put on the night rail and done the reverse in the mornings. But sitting naked in a tub in the middle of the captain’s cabin would take far more courage.

Grace eyed the small copper bathing tub. She could almost feel the heat shimmering up from the water, feel the steam against her skin. Her decision was made. Reaching behind her back, she began to unfasten the buttons closing up her dress, but the buttons were small and hard to reach.

“Damn thing,” she muttered, wishing Phoebe were there to help her. She twisted herself into a knot, trying to work the last few buttons.

“Perhaps I might be of assistance.” The deep voice reached her from across the cabin. She had been so preoccupied with her gown she hadn’t heard him come in.

He didn’t wait for her answer, just strode toward her in his gleaming knee-high boots. There was a faint hesitation in his stride that she had noticed before, an old wound per haps. Though he hid the slight limp well, when he got angry or upset it became more pronounced.

It didn’t seem to be bothering him now as he stripped away his woolen coat and tossed it onto the bed, leaving him in snug black breeches and a full-sleeved shirt. He looked like a pirate, a Black Bart or maybe Captain Kidd, and perhaps he was.

He had taken her by force, had he not? Abducted her against her will from the Lady Anne?

She felt his fingers on her gown, working the buttons with a skill that told her he was no stranger to the feminine wardrobe. The minute the gown fell open, she walked away from him, holding the dress up over her breasts.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now if you will excuse me, I should like to enjoy the bath you so thoughtfully sent down.”

He gave her one of his ruthless smiles. “Of course. I’ll just stand out of the way over here.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Surely you don’t intend to stay here while I disrobe?”

But one look into those hungry blue eyes said that was exactly his intention. “I’ve provided the bath. I want something in return. As a man who appreciates the beauty of the female form, I wish to watch you bathe.”

“You’re insane.”

“Actually, I think I’m being quite reasonable. We’re sharing this cabin. Sooner or later, we will both need to use that tub.” She blushed, thinking she needed to use it now. She had never been so unkempt in a gentleman’s presence. Of course, the captain was scarcely a gentleman. “And it isn’t as though you have never been naked in front of a man before.”

The blush deepened. How dare he think such a thing! She had been kissed by two different men—three including him. She had wanted to know what it felt like. But that was as far as her physical experience went.

She could tell him that, though he probably wouldn’t believe her. So far she had been holding her cards close to the vest. It was beginning to look as if he knew less about her than she had first thought. For the present, it might be to her advantage to keep it that way.

“Well, I have never been naked in front of you and that is the way I wish to keep it.”

He shrugged those wide shoulders. “As you wish. I’ll have the men remove the tub.” He started for the door.

“Wait!” She worried her bottom lip, eyeing the tub, yearning to be fresh and clean again. “Perhaps we could compromise.”

One dark eyebrow went up. “How so?”

“Well…if you turned round until I got into the tub, per haps I wouldn’t feel quite so exposed.”

He glanced from her to the water, looked at her and smiled. “All right, if it makes you feel better, I’ll turn my back till you get in the tub.”

He did so, crossing his arms over his chest. Grace closed her eyes, trying to summon her courage. She needed that bath. She wasn’t about to let the devil captain keep her from it.

Hurriedly stripping off her clothes, she climbed into the small copper tub, drawing her legs up beneath her chin. The splash of water alerted him. He waited a second more, giving her time to get settled, then turned.

The man made such a thorough inspection of her body her cheeks began to burn, then he walked over to the cupboard and drew out the towel she had forgotten, along with a bar of soap. It was lavender scented, certainly not meant for him.

“You’ll need this when you finish.” He draped the towel over the back of the chair. “And a little of this might be useful.” She reached up to catch the bar of soap he tossed her way and saw his eyes darken.

Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink as she realized that in reaching up, she had given him a glimpse of her naked breasts.

“You make quite a fetching picture, Miss Chastain.”

Grace eyed him warily as he approached the tub and went down on one knee beside it.

“You’ll want to wash you hair,” he said, his voice a little gruff.

Grace sat perfectly still as he pulled off the edge of torn lace that bound the single braid she had made of her hair. Using his fingers to separate the heavy strands, he spread them around her shoulders.

“You’ve beautiful hair,” he said softly. “The color of fire and soft as silk.”

She said nothing, but something warm filtered into her stomach. She could feel his hands, the long, tapered fingers brushing the nape of her neck, tugging gently on an auburn strand. Goose bumps crept over her skin and the warmth in her stomach filtered out through her limbs.

“Give me the soap,” he said, plucking it from her trembling hands before she could stop him. “I’ll wash your back for you.”

Oh, dear God! “You—you can’t possibly mean to do that!” More words of protest formed on her tongue but she couldn’t seem to force them out. And if she tried to move away from him, he would be able to see even more of her than he could already. She stiffened at the feel of his hand moving the bar of soap in slow circles over the skin on her back.

“Relax, Grace. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to…”

“I don’t want you to touch me.”

“…aside from helping you wash.” He soaped the linen rag again and the scent of lavender drifted over her. The heat of the water seeped into her stiff muscles, and against her will she began to relax. As if in some sort of trance, she closed her eyes and some of her tension began to fade.

The cloth moved gently down her neck and onto her back. He soaped her shoulders, moved the cloth down each of her arms. He trickled water over the soap on her back and arms then slowly reached around to soap her throat and chest.

Her eyes snapped open as the cloth moved lower, circled a breast, slid between her cleavage, circled the other breast, rubbed over her nipples. They peaked beneath the water, and heat and moisture slid into her core.