The Captain of All Pleasures (Sutherland Brothers 1)

She walked closer and raised her face to catch his gaze. "Chancey, if you kick me off this ship, then I'm walking straight over to the Southern Cross and sailing with Sutherland. You know he'll take me on." She gave him a sly look.

"Bloody hell! Yer father'll have a stroke, ye just see if he won't. And he'll be comin' after ye."

"No, he won't--I wrote him a letter. He'll be fine," she said blithely, though she doubted her pleading letter would in fact keep him idle in London. "One way or another, I'm sailing this race. Since you need me, I might as well sail with you."

When he still looked unconvinced, she said, "You're always telling me to follow my gut--listen to my instincts. Well, right now my instinct's telling me that I need to be a part of this race."

Chancey looked as though that idea affected him, but then he smirked. "I'll just stay here till Sutherland sails. Then where will ye be?"

She smirked back. "If you go by his ship, you'll see that he's not sailing today, and rumor has it that he's not going to sail for a couple more days. Who knows, Chancey, he might be waiting to find me," she said. She didn't believe that, but this line of argument appeared to be wearing the man down. "I'll just go let him know where I am." She turned on her heel, astonishing even herself with how scheming she could be. But this was an exception--she had to sail.

She'd just made it to the gangway when he reeled off a curse. His voice gruff, he called out, "I hope all those dancin' lessons didn't make ye forget yer dead reckonin' and numbers."

Several hundred ships upriver from Nicole, Derek sat for a good part of the afternoon nursing a bottle of brandy. The race would be starting soon, so he left his cabin to climb up on deck. He took a deep breath of air, fresher because of the high tide, and scanned the port crowded with the world's fastest moonrakers, their masts towering into the clouds. He could hear the lively music carrying over the water as an official band played. All along the Thames, shopkeepers filled the quayside with their colorful stalls, and the national flags of all the entries dotted the patchwork scene. It was a huge celebration, one he and his men should be a part of. But he couldn't think of that now.

He'd expected that the sight of his better rivals with their spotless vessels in full regalia would make him feel like a complete fool for choosing to stay in port. He'd watched and jotted down his customary observations about the ships, but he hadn't come to regret his decision. For some reason that he didn't understand, he had to find Nicole before he sailed. An urgency gripped him that he couldn't explain to himself, much less to his disgusted brother or disgruntled crew.

Remembering the astonished faces of his sailors when he'd told them his decision made his lips twitch. He hadn't missed the quick exchange of coins as bets were paid. Well, they could laugh all they wanted. The decision to find her was...right.

His semidrunken musings were interrupted when he noticed the Bella Nicola taking her place among the other ships. He knew Lassiter was still in jail, and that he hadn't even attempted the surely futile search for another captain. So who in the hell was taking the ship on?

Derek raced over the helm to pick up his spyglass. Unsteadily, he trained it on the ship.

With her glinting hair streaming out behind her, Nicole Lassiter stood at the bow of the Bella Nicola and was sailing right past him. Chancey had the bridge.

Derek shook his head, unable to believe it. He ran a hand over his face; then, with an excitement he hadn't felt in years, he turned toward his crew and bellowed, "Make ready to sail!"

Chapter 10

O ut of necessity, Nicole and Chancey made it through the day without arguing.

But that night...

"Damn it, what were ye thinkin'?" he bellowed over dinner. His voice boomed so loud, Nicole thought it rattled their tin plates.

She blew out a breath. "You know, I was thinking we'd make it through the whole day."

He had his thick hand stuffed into the handle of a mug that he whacked against the table for emphasis. "This is no school outin'. We're sailin' into the Forties--ye know the kind o' storms we'll see."

"I know, and I can't wait." She slathered butter on a biscuit and took a big bite.

"We'll have to adjust our course because o' ye. Hell, we shouldn't even sail this bloody race." Another bang of his mug. "We don't have a chance with ye on board."

"That's where you're wrong," she declared, tempted to bang her mug back at him. "I plan on navigating for us, winning this race, and saving the line. Unless you want to risk my father's future and ours as well, we'll stay steady and weather whatever comes, as it comes."

"What about Sutherland? We all saw him yellin' at his crew and them all scamperin' all over the deck--ye know he's comin'. What do ye think he'll do now?"

"I think he'll eat our wake for the next thirteen thousand miles," she said with a lazy grin, ignoring Chancey's vexed expression. She picked up an apple and knife and leisurely began cutting. "Really, what can he do now that we're under way? Catch us?" she scoffed.

"No, he can't catch the Bella Nicola. But say what if?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I can't understand a man like that. Chancey, why wasn't he planning on sailing today? Doesn't he care that this is probably the most important race of his life?"

"Sometimes a man like that is beyond carin' about anythin'," he answered as he wrenched his mug off his hand and pushed his plate aside.

"Why?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out tobacco for his clay pipe. "'Cause he's lost the hope in him."

"So, what happens with someone like him? Do they just stay that way forever?" she asked, then added, "Oh, don't look at me all suspicious like that. I'm not making plans--I'm just curious. I might not ever see him again."

He eyed her skeptically, but at her feigned studious look he relaxed, lit his pipe, and began explaining. "A man can change, but only when he can start lookin' forward to the days ahead. If ye dread every mornin' cause it's a new day, then ye stop carin'."

"Is that what happened with you when your wife died?"

Chancey inhaled deeply on his pipe, the air forcing his barrel chest to grow even larger, and exhaled slowly. "Aye. It were bloody hard--so hard I'd given up on livin'. But then yer father hired me aboard. Blasted Yank wouldn't take no for an answer--said he understood what I was goin' through. And I knew quick-like that I needed to help him care for ye. Ye were so wild, doin' only as ye pleased. And he couldn't naysay ye. Still can't, if ye ask me," he grumbled.

She ignored the last comment and asked, "So, we helped you get your hope back?"

"Aye. It takes somethin' to change yer life so much ye can finally see that yer days could turn out good-like in the future."

Was that why Sutherland wasted all that he'd been given in his life? He threw away so much, and it angered her. She needed to feed that anger, because she'd unforgivably developed soft feelings toward him that made her weak--soft feelings that clung even after she understood how truly despicable he was. She couldn't seem to think of him without her heart squeezing in her chest, yet for him she'd been merely a...diversion. The heated names she'd called him that strange night while trying to get Chancey to forget the idea of marriage had seemed harsh and overdone then. Really, they were exactly fitting.

What was so bad was that, deep down, she'd known. She'd felt the danger rolling off him. She'd seen him in that vile tap house and had learned about his exploits even before she met him.

The only thing that kept her from truly hating Sutherland was remembering that she had been using him as well. She'd needed to appease her desires and curiosity because, until that night, she'd tossed in her bed wondering about passion until she thought it would drive her mad.

Sadly, she still tossed in her bed, but now it was because she understood what passion was.

Why couldn't he be the type of man who would be as affected as she was and feel this longing, too?

"Nic, ye look like ye're gonna cry," Chancey said hesitantly as he relit his pipe.

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"Huh?" She shook her head. "I was just thinking...and I am not going to cry." She was appalled at the idea. "When was the last time you saw me cry?"

Chancey thought before answering. "When ye were eight and ye fell outta the riggin' and broke yer arm. Such a wee monkey ye were." He chuckled. "I thought yer father was gonna have a fit."