When he came back to his cabin, she was just turning in the bed. She shuddered from the small movement and began crying silently in her sleep. He wanted to kill--kill--the Irisher for letting her sail in these waters, much less for risking her life by pushing that ship in the Forties. And her crew had allowed her to steer in a gale. Because of their stupidity, she'd obviously struck the rocky shoals and gutted her father's ship. If he hadn't been in the area, they most likely wouldn't have survived.
"Captain, you're needed on deck right away!" Bigsby called from the door.
"What is it?" Derek snapped as he ran past the doctor.
"It would appear that her crew is taking the ship."
At dawn, when Derek staggered back to his cabin in exhaustion, he found Bigsby at Nicole's bedside. During the skirmish last night, the surgeon had evidently stayed behind with her. He didn't like to think about that. He wanted to care for her as much as possible and see her through this.
So he could throttle her when she woke up.
"Is she all right?"
"Yes, Captain--"
"Out."
Bigsby jumped from his seat. "Of course, Captain," the man said as he turned to leave. "I believe she'll wake up soon."
When the door closed, Derek was at Nicole's bedside. She appeared so slight, dressed as she was in one of his shirts without her cloak adding bulk to her slender form. He found himself willing her to awaken, and wondered why he was so apprehensive about her recovery. He didn't want to examine his feelings toward her. If pressed, he'd say he wanted her to wake so he could begin his retribution.
Strangely, he knew that in the next few days he would drink more than he ate and sleep little.
That night after returning from his duties, he sat at his desk, drinking heavily, and again his eyes trailed to her sea chests, the chests that he'd heedlessly brought aboard. He'd had no idea if they held things women couldn't live without, since he'd never packed for a woman or lived with one.
He surveyed them with a curious feeling of dread. They were just sitting there, those feminine sea chests. Directly beside his own. With a thread of something akin to panic, he understood that they were in his cabin and would stay there because, according to Bigsby, she couldn't be moved.
When he'd first brought her aboard, he'd strung up a hammock in his cabin, but he could only imagine the night of fitful, interrupted sleep he'd get once he could finally lie down. Damn it, he wanted his own bunk back.
She'd be in agony if he accidentally jostled her in the night, but she was small and took up little room in his large bed. He'd all but convinced himself to join her. Instead he sat debating, drinking for hours. Until she began shivering.
It wasn't cool in the room; the cabin boy constantly refilled the stove because of her. Yet there she lay, shaking more each minute. He could call for Bigsby. No, he decided, he'd take care of her himself. He stripped off his clothes, ready to sleep, and carefully slid in beside her to give her warmth.
But it made little difference. She was breathing deeply and mumbling, and he feared she'd developed a fever. Tentatively he inched closer to her and cautiously wrapped himself around her. She calmed and moved closer to him.
He felt a strange feeling of accomplishment. He'd made her shivering stop just by his presence and warmth. Unusual for him, he slept straight away.
Sometime in the night, he awoke to find her back snuggled against his chest for warmth and her head lying on his outstretched arm. His whole body tensed in response. Although she wore his shirt, it rode up her thighs, and he could feel every inch of her legs and...higher.
This was torture. His erection pulsed thick and rigid. Not being able to touch her when all he wanted to do was bury himself in her was maddening.
He could swear the little witch purposefully tormented him when she wriggled her bottom closer to him. He sucked in a breath--his cock rested at the press of her inner thighs. He gritted his teeth, straining to think of anything but her smell or her soft hair against his chest. But his mind kept coming back to how perfectly she fit between his hips. Their bodies meshed like two pieces of a puzzle, and he knew bedding her would bear that idea out.
Before her treachery, he would have made love to her. A thorough and selfless joining in which he would have licked her in secret places, run his tongue over the small dip between her intimate flesh and her pale thigh, and worshipped her breasts. A world away from the stiff fucking he planned for her now. The thought made him bitter--he wished he had the option to do both.
In the nights that followed, he made his way into his bunk to sleep. He awoke early, careful to leave in case she woke. Then, after he'd gone to the bridge to give out orders for the day, he'd return and check on her.
He could almost fool himself that if she wasn't aware of him spending time with her in bed, it didn't count as any kind of increased intimacy. He didn't have a choice in the matter anyway. Although he hadn't told Bigsby, Nicole shook in tremors each night. Since her skin was rarely hot, he'd concluded that the girl was gripped by what had to be hellish nightmares. Until he came to her.
Since Bigsby had finagled his way into caring for her when Derek had to take the bridge, the surgeon was with her for most of the day. Derek's only time to help her recover was in the nights, and he didn't want to stop just yet. It was a challenge to calm her.
On the third night, he couldn't stop her trembling even after he'd wrapped himself and three blankets over her. He couldn't get any closer to her. Their skin touched in every place it could, but she continued to moan quietly and shake. In his frustration, Derek put his hand in her hair and stroked her. When this helped, he leaned close to her ear and murmured, "Shhh, Nicole. You need to sleep."
She stilled and again snuggled against him. Derek swore. A fever might be better than her continued nightmares. Nightmares of the storm, he didn't doubt. He continued petting her, and her breathing deepened and calmed. Before he could chastise himself, deride his absurd behavior, he'd whispered, "Good girl," then fallen soundly asleep.
On the fourth day, he was rewarded when her eyes fluttered open.
When she parted her pallid lips, he poured a glass of water for her and awaited her questions. After blinking several times, her eyes settled wide open. She looked as if she battled panic, so he was relieved when she was able to phrase a c
lear question.
"Where am I?" she rasped before she let him pull her up for a drink.
"You're aboard the Southern Cross."
She drank deeply, then sank back down in confusion. "My ship...?"
"Went down."
At his answer, she brought a limp hand over her face as a broken sound burst from her lips. "C-Crew?" she whispered.
"Your crew,"--he skewered the word--"will be hauled off to the jail in Cape Town for attempted mutiny. It would seem that not knowing about your safety drove the bastards crazy."
"Did you...harm them?" she asked, staring at him accusingly.
"Yes, of course they were hurt when we defended my ship!" Her face became even paler, if possible, and she looked as though she might be sick, so he added brusquely, "If you mean to ask if anyone was killed, then the answer is no."
Such a look of relief crossed her face.... What were those men to her?
She reached out and gripped his wrist with a frantic strength in her small hand. "I must see Chancey." Her touch was like lightning running through him. He rushed to assure himself that her skin was just hot--she might in fact be getting feverish. When her demand sank in, he became furious.
"That will not happen, princess," he pronounced in clipped tones.
Abruptly she dropped his hand as her own fell by her side, all strength vanishing. She looked desolate, with such bleakness in her eyes that he came close to taking back what he'd said.
Inwardly, he cringed at his weakness where Lassiter's daughter was concerned. Was he losing his mind to even think about letting the woman who'd poisoned his crew see the man who'd tried to take his ship? The idea was ludicrous, and it wouldn't happen.
"I've attempted to get information on the poisoning from some of your crew, but they swear they don't know anything about it." He pinned her with a flinty glare. "Now you'll tell me about the sabotage."
Her eyes widened in surprise before she hissed, "As if you don't know."
"What the hell does that mean? How would I know?"