--it wouldn't be breached.
Except in bed with him.
From the first night they'd slept together back in London, he'd found it...nice with her, and he'd continued to each night, even after her outburst. Every morning, it became harder to leave her and their unspoken--and, on her side, unconscious--truce. When he folded her to his chest, she welcomed him, even unwittingly moving closer to him.
That night, when he returned to the cabin, he looked her over. Her small hands nestled the blanket under her chin, and her thick braid wound over her shoulder. Beautiful. She was beautiful to him. He wanted to make love to her for more than the pleasure he knew he'd find with her. He wanted to take her, to make this clever, brave woman his.
For some reason, the want of her that never left him was more powerful tonight. He was sick with it, sick with wanting her. Tonight he wouldn't--couldn't--sleep with her. He stayed in his chair, thinking about the girl in his bed, hard drinking in hope of oblivion. When he rose to get another bottle, she awakened and rubbed her eyes.
"What are you doing?"
She didn't say, "What are you doing in here?" Did she know he came in each night? Did she have any idea how she affected him?
"I'm pouring myself a drink. Care for one?"
She shook her head and pulled herself up, knees to chest, bundled in a cloud of blankets. "Why do you do it? Why drink so much?"
The glass he'd filled and raised to his lips stopped. This was the first personal question she'd ever asked him, the first interest she'd shown. Yet she'd targeted his greatest weakness.
He was just drunk enough to answer her honestly. "I drink to forget. To forget what I can't change."
She angled her head. "Does it help?"
"I don't know," he said, frowning down at his glass. "I used to think so."
"I'm sad for you," she said softly, and then eased down to sleep again.
Late into the night, he thought about their exchange. "I'm sad for you" sounded more and more like "I feel sorry for you."
Damn it, he was a proud man. He wanted her to respect him, to want him. For Christ's sake, he didn't want her pity.
Even if he quit drinking--if he could--he was running out of time to win her. Each interminable night like this, they sailed closer to port, and there was more standing between them than he'd ever thought.
He could only imagine how badly she wanted to land. He himself wasn't happily anticipating arriving in Sydney, because Nicole would leave him and never look back.
Chapter 18
F or the next couple of nights, Jimmy brought her dinner in, setting the tray down with a flourish. The bratling had changed his behavior toward her so drastically that she suspected he had, in fact, spit in her food before and now felt guilty. He wouldn't leave her alone, but peppered her with questions. He complimented her and brought her bathwater every day, as well as choice selections of food. In fact, she'd never eaten this well this far out.
The other crewman who weren't friendly to her weren't unfriendly either and mainly kept to themselves. Which was fine by her. She already had a crew, a good crew whom she loved. She didn't need to be welcomed into the fold by this one.
Ignoring Jimmy's chatter, she scooped up a handful of raisins and thought about her situation. She couldn't continue with her grudge for much longer. She wasn't the type to stay angry; she always blew up and then minutes later forgot what the fight was about. And she told herself that under the circumstances, she probably would have believed the same thing Sutherland and his crew had.
Sutherland especially made it difficult. He anticipated her every want. Yesterday when they'd passed a home-bound French steamer, he'd signaled them and rowed over with a crewman to board their ship even though he would lose time. He'd brought back a bag full of fruit for her--apples, oranges, these raisins--for which he must have paid a fortune. She'd had to hide her open-mouthed astonishment, because he'd also brought her a good supply of ink, saying she'd probably want to write her father.
If she had to walk past him, which seemed to be happening more often lately, he would brush by her and put his hand on the small of her back. If that wasn't enough, he'd let it linger. She supposed that, in each of these ways, he asked for her forgiveness.
Sleeping beside him wore her down as well. Nicole was aware he came in every night, though he hadn't realized that she woke each time he entered the bed.
She should be angry at the liberty. But as long as he didn't think she knew, she could just pretend she didn't and continue to enjoy the warmth he provided in the freezing nights.
But sometimes when he put his arms around her and pulled her to him, his hand would brush her breast. She'd go still at the shock of pleasure. Each night she found it harder not to respond, and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to move against his body, so warm and hard against hers. His heartbeat drumming into her back relaxed her guard, lulling her.
When she was recovering, he'd sleep soon after he lay down, but now he stayed awake, tense. A night didn't go by when she couldn't feel the evidence of his arousal. He held himself in check. For her. She wished he wouldn't. She wished he'd pull her to him and touch her as he'd done in the past.
Then the guilt would overcome her. How could she desire him when he'd had her crew jailed? He himself had said that he'd given them no word of her health. Of course they would try to mutiny; they had no idea what he was doing with her. No, she couldn't let down her guard with him. Any man cruel enough to antagonize her sailors and throw them to the wolves in Cape Town when they reacted could not be trusted.
"Are you all right?" Jimmy asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
She looked down to see that her hands were clenched. "I'm fine."
Jimmy frowned as he picked up the tray. "Better get this back to Cook."
When she nodded absently, he carried out the tray.
Suddenly restless, Nicole bundled up in nearly every piece of her clothing, draped a blanket over the whole, and headed out the door. For what seemed like an hour, she stared out at the sea, where the moon's light flashed over the water. It hung above the horizon as if it were too great and heavy to rise.
"Incredible, is it not?" Sutherland said as he walked up behind her. "It's as if she's reluctant to part from the sea." He stood, making no move to join her at the railing.
She didn't answer, just battled the urge to sink back into him, into the warmth she enjoyed even now without touching him.
"I think this is my favorite part of the entire journey--these last few days so far south."
How could his voice affect her so? Why did it tempt her to turn and bury herself against his chest?
She shook her head, reminding herself that he'd hurt her crew. "That doesn't surprise me," she began in a waspish tone, "since it's cold." If she was cutting enough, would he leave her?
Silence followed, and she almost regretted her sharp tone. He placed his hand on her shoulder.
"You're shivering. Why don't you ever wear the warm clothes I set out for you?"
"Oh, is that why you place them on the bed?" she asked without feigning interest.
"Yes. I, uh, didn't know how to go about getting you to wear my things."
"In the future, don't waste your time."
He exhaled. "Nicole, I want you to know," he said haltingly, "that I am sorry for the way things have been between us. I would change the way I've treated you if I could."
When she said nothing, he turned her. "I know you might hate me, but we've got something between us that can't be ignored any longer. Don't y
ou feel how right this could be?" he asked as he gently stroked her cheek. His eyes, glowing silver in the moonlight, mesmerized her with their intensity.
She looked away and attempted a casual tone. "You make it sound as if we have no say in the matter, as if it's something out of our control."
"That's how it's felt to me. Even when I believed you'd harmed my crew, I still wanted you no matter how hard I fought it."
He was describing the same feelings she had. The involuntary ones that made her forget about her crew--about Chancey.
She stiffened. "Too much has passed between us. It's too late. If you feel bad about how I've been treated here, then make it up to me. By leaving me alone."
The next morning, Derek was resolved. The night before, she'd told him, clearly told him, that she wanted nothing to do with him. Her body, rubbing against his till dawn, relayed a different want. If he had to win her on that level to have her completely, then he would. He'd use every night to overcome her objections until he could claim her days.
As on most mornings, he spent his time watching her from the bridge over a cup of coffee. Her looks charmed him, cheeks rosy from the crisp breeze, braids peeking out from the floppy hat she was never without.
She walked across the deck to Jebediah. Approaching Jeb was a first, and could she be...? She was wearing Derek's sweater.
His thick, favorite, obscenely expensive sweater.
Well, he'd told her to wear his clothes, right?
These were good signs. Apparently Jeb thought so, too, because after nodding emphatically to her, he tore off to the galley as fast as his old body could creak along. Minutes later, he'd retrieved bait and fishing tackle and set her up at amidships. She said something else to him, and when he walked away his chest was puffed up in pride. A smile creased his old face.
She'd chosen to throw out a line right when the fishing would pick up again, now that they were finally traveling more to the north, and that impressed him. He was content to watch her from a distance as she took out a small fish for bait, cut it, hooked it, and then...slowly ran her slimy hands down the front of his sweater. He could swear that the scales embedded in the fine fabric shone in the sun. Casually, she grasped and cast her rod.
How could she--? But that was fine. He could get past cut-up fish on his clothing if it made her feel better.