Pearls of Fire, page 8
She realized her hair was unbound and loosely tumbling down her back. She still wore the gown she had on yesterday. As a precaution, she’d slept in it. She peeked down at her bodice only to find the lace missing and the swell of her breasts exposed.
Although stylish and not at all brazen by London standards, it would never do on board The Persephone. She was in the middle of an ocean with men of questionable character. Realizing her fichu must have fallen off during the night, she quickly searched along the length of her bed for it as they spoke. “You haven’t answered my question.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. They might return.”
“Do you think they were purposely following us? Why don’t you think it was Major Brewster? Perhaps Sir Robert had his cousin chase after us on the fastest ship he could commandeer.”
“Then why not approach us and declare its colors?” He sighed, or perhaps it was a muffled yawn.
Emma arched an eyebrow. “Because you’re a pirate who escaped from prison and sailed off with me in the middle of the night? They might be worried that you’ll blast them out of the water if they dare approach.”
“I might.”
He cast her a hot, possessive glance that ignited a heat within her. It was filled with his usual arrogance, but there was also a genuine yearning for her that simply turned her legs to pudding. Was it possible he cared for her? “You must be exhausted, Hugh. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
He shook his head. “Lucifer’s taking a turn in the hammock. He’s in greater need of rest.”
“You can sleep here,” she said, the words slipping out before she could hold them back.
He grinned and shook his head. “A most tempting offer, but I’ll wait for Lucifer to wake up.”
“No, stay here. It’s the only practical solution. At least for a few hours. This cabin is yours, after all. Martine and I will remain on deck while you sleep. In truth, I ought to make certain she is all right. She looked a little green when running out of here.” The butterflies in her stomach fluttered at the thought of Hugh lying in her bed, leaving his scent on her pillow.
She liked his scent, a refreshing mix of clean, male heat and subtle ocean breezes.
He cast her another weary smile while arching his back and flexing his shoulders to work the knots of tension out of his body. “That’s kind of you, Emma. I think I’ll do just that.”
Mercy, he had a big, muscled body.
She felt her cheeks heat under his intense stare. “Yes, well… sweet dreams, Hugh.” Oh, what a stupid thing to say to a pirate. Sweet dreams, indeed. “Give me a moment and I’ll get out of your way.”
She’d found her fichu and now attempted to attach it to her collar with her fumbling fingers.
“Here, let me help.” Hugh came to her side to complete the task for her. The wicked amusement in his eyes intensified with her growing dismay. To his credit, he made no suggestive remark and was surprisingly careful not to graze his hand along her wildly heaving bosom.
He was so close and his hands were steady and warm. Mercy. Did all women respond to him this way? Feel this hot, wanton ache inside of them whenever he drew near? Of course, they did. She wasn’t special to him. He’d merely perfected the look he cast all women, that I-need-you-more-than-I-need-air-to-breathe look that made her want to strip off her gown and climb into bed beside him.
He tweaked her nose. “Don’t forget your parasol.”
She jumped like a startled doe. “My parasol?”
“You’ll damage your perfect complexion if you’re not careful.” He grinned. “I counted four freckles on your nose.”
Here she was, on the verge of jumping into bed with him, and there he was, innocently counting the freckles on her nose. She shook her head and laughed gently. “Four freckles? Heavens, I’m ruined.” But her laughter quickly faded and she turned serious once more. She stepped to the bed and withdrew the pistol from its hiding spot under her pillow. Her thoughts were no longer on him or his magnificent body or the yearning he stirred within her fragile heart, but on the mystery ship that had Hugh and his crew so on edge. “What shall I do with this pistol?”
“Keep it for now. We’re in dangerous territory. You may have to use it later.” He inspected her gown with an impersonal, assessing gaze. “There’s no place to hide the weapon on you. Leave it in the cabin, but somewhere within easy reach.”
Nodding, she carefully placed the pistol on the bookshelf near the bed. It was in plain sight, but no one came in here other than Hugh or Martine, so there was little possibility of it being stolen.
“One last thing, lass.”
“Yes?”
His expression was sleepy and sensual, so she was caught off guard by his next words. “Never sleep with the pistol under your pillow.”
She tipped her head in confusion. “Why not?”
“Because you’ll blow your pretty head off with one false move.”
She blushed and sputtered, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish. Had she mistaken his glances, believing them to be filled with desire and possessive yearning when he was merely trying not to burst out laughing at her stupidity? Any simpleton would have known better than to rest his head atop a loaded weapon.
“I had better go.” She meant to hurry out, but she fumbled with the latch and couldn’t see what she was doing wrong for the hot tears filling her eyes.
“Emma.” Hugh pulled her into his arms and held her against his warm, hard body. “Emma,” he repeated, shutting the door that she’d finally managed to open and pinning her against it. “What did I say to overset you?”
“Nothing. It was me. It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t have the pistol under my pillow. How could I not know that? It might have gone off and killed Martine.”
He placed his palm against her cheek and caressed it with his thumb, gently wiping the tears that fell onto it. “It was a mistake, that’s all. It’s been corrected now. Why are you so hard on yourself?”
“I can’t afford to make mistakes.”
“We all make them. I’ve made huge ones, as everyone knows, and I will probably make many more. I’m about to make another one right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“This.” He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers, perhaps intending to be gentle, but Emma wanted more of him than that. Her hands slid up his chest and wrapped around his neck to draw him closer, and her lips returned the pressure by pressing deeply against his.
In the next moment, they were making mistakes galore. He couldn’t seem to control his hands, nor could she control hers. His roamed along her body, leaving a trail of fire wherever he traced along her curves. She arched into him when he cupped one of her breasts in his big hand and gently began to tease its tautening tip. “Hugh.”
“I know, my sweet. Lord, you take my breath away.” He loosened the laces of her gown and slipped it off her shoulders to expose her bosom to his full view. “I knew you’d be this beautiful.” He merely looked for the longest moment, his gaze filling with heat and turning exquisitely tender. “Beautiful,” he repeated, his voice raw and raspy. He dipped his head and began to tease her breast with his tongue, flicking lightly against the bud of her breast until it swelled and turned pebble hard.
Her vision blurred.
She saw stars.
She saw magic.
The touch of his big, warm palm against the fleshy mound had been explosive, but this… this wanton pleasure was simply beyond words. Beyond rational explanation. Moaning, she wound her fingers in his hair and tugged him to her, holding his head tight and crushing it to her breast.
She felt the smile on his lips as his mouth pressed against her fiery skin. He knew she wanted more of him.
“Emma, what you do to me,” he whispered, pulling away from her.
She was about to cry out in protest, but realized he’d merely released her to remove his shirt and give her access to his taut muscles. She pulled him back to her, clutching his massive, bronze shoulders as though her life was in the balance. His skin felt hot and fiery. Or was it her heat, her fire that she felt on the palms of her hands.
She sighed as he lifted her up against his body.
It was as hard as forged steel.
She couldn’t stop touching his naked chest, enthralled by the rippling waves of his muscles, the tautness of his stomach and trim waist, the bristled softness of his chest hairs. She felt those golden bristles thinning in a line toward his navel.
“I promised myself that I wouldn’t touch you,” he said in a raw whisper, speaking into her breast before his lips closed over the still swollen bud and his tongue flicked across it.
“I vowed to myself I’d never let you.” She ran her tongue along his corded neck, needing to taste him as he was tasting her. He tasted of heat and sea salt and ocean spray. “Is this what you’d planned for us that night in Lord Jameson’s garden?”
She hoped it was.
She would have let him lick and kiss and taste her body wherever he pleased.
But she must have said the wrong thing, for he drew away suddenly and began to adjust the bodice of her gown so that it properly covered her. His hands shook as he tied the laces back in place, but his touch remained exquisitely gentle. “No, this isn’t what I had planned that night.”
She gazed at him in confusion, her body aching for the heat and excitement of his mouth and hands on her, of the fire kindled by the intimate touch of his skin to hers. “It wasn’t? Then what did you plan to do?”
He turned away as though too pained to meet her gaze. She saw the scars and bruises that would forever mar his back and brand him for life as a hunted pirate. Some had faded, but they would never disappear. He was no longer the respected viscount. That part of him no longer existed. “That night in the garden.” He gave a wistful laugh. “That perfect, moonlit night.”
“Yes,” she said, trying not to sound impatient. “What were you going to do?”
He growled low in his throat, an aching, wrenching sound that made her heart twist. “I was going to propose to you. I wanted you to become my wife.”
Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces. The crash of ocean waves against the hull roared in her ears. She felt as though she’d tumbled off the deck and was drowning in turbulent waters. Had he fallen in love with her back then? Or was he lying to her now? She didn’t know. All the mistakes, all the schemes and deceptions, had become an insurmountable mountain of distrust.
And yet, his words filled her with elation. “I would have accepted you. I would have accepted with all my heart.”
She whirled on her heels and fled the cabin.
Chapter Eight
Emma strolled along the deck with Martine, both of them doing their best to keep out of the way of the obviously tense and tired crew. They’d been at sea for over twelve weeks now, and the mystery ship had appeared three more times that she was aware, the latest appearance occurring just last night.
No one could be certain it was the same ship since it never sailed close enough to be properly identified. But Hugh suspected it was. The only reason he hadn’t brought The Persephone around to engage the other vessel was because she and Martine were on board. “I will not put your life at risk,” he’d told her. Was it because he still loved her?
Neither of them had ever mentioned that moment in his cabin again.
There was no point. Even if he had loved her once, he’d never ask her to marry him now. And she would never accept him now. They both knew it.
Perhaps that moment of groping and clutching and desperately exploring each other’s body was their way of putting an end to their pent up hopes and dreams.
Shaking out of her thoughts, Emma paused at the railing to peer across the horizon. Yesterday, she’d watched a mother whale and her newborn swim beside The Persephone for hours. Today, she saw dolphins playfully leaping in and out of the water, and schools of fish in the deep blue of the ocean below. A few birds soared overhead, winging across the cloudless sky. The boat heaved as white-crested waves broke sharply against the ship’s keel. “We must be nearing the islands.”
Martine said nothing, but put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Emma raised her parasol and angled it to shade herself. The sun shone with intense brightness this morning, a certain sign the day would be hot. However, the air felt more humid than it had yesterday.
Perhaps a storm was in the offing.
“Interesting,” Hugh muttered, joining Emma in her cabin as he had most evenings since he’d discovered the journal. She glanced up from her own reading and saw the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Of course, the smile was for what he had discovered in Stefan’s journal and not for her.
Not that she wished for him to smile at her. Every time he did, she thought back to the night of Lord Jameson’s ball and the handsome viscount who had taken notice of her. She wanted that innocent moment back. She remembered that her hands had been shaking with excitement when she’d added Hugh’s name to her dance card that night. In a bold statement that had attracted the notice of her parents and anyone standing close by, he’d insisted on claiming two dances. She ought to have been more cautious, but she’d melted with delight and been so easily swept away by his good looks and effortless charm.
She forced herself back to the present, setting down her own book and taking the offered journal from his grasp. “What is so fascinating about this passage?”
He pointed to a paragraph on the page and read the first few words aloud. “We captured a Dutchman on the island of Buru. My Captain fears the man is a spy and not the merchant he claims to be. He’s decided to kill him. I see no need for such harsh action, for the man is old and in ill health. Spy or not, it is obvious he will not survive the month.”
Emma continued to the next entry in the journal. “I have spoken up on behalf of the Dutchman. Reluctantly, my Captain has agreed to let him live. He’s placed me in charge of our new prisoner.”
“Stefan had a kind heart,” Hugh said. “It seems to run in the family.”
Emma blushed, realizing he was referring to her. “Perhaps. On the whole, it appears Stefan was a man of honor despite the supposed mistakes of his youth. He wasn’t a saint.” She gave a gentle laugh. “I imagine Stefan embellished quite a bit about his good deeds and feats of daring.”
Hugh grinned. “As any man would. It is in our prideful nature.”
She wanted to engage in further conversation, but Hugh was no longer looking at her. Lately, it seemed he could not, or would not, look at her for more than a moment before burying his head in the journal. “Hugh, have I said something to offend you?”
He arched an eyebrow, but still did not turn to face her. “No.”
“Then why do you glance everywhere but at me? Sometimes it feels as though you are desperate to avoid me.” With each passing day, he seemed to withdraw deeper into himself, hardly acknowledging her presence. Some nights, he barely tolerated being in the cabin with her.
The more cooperative she tried to be, the more distant he became.
“Must I always look at you?”
“The point is, you never look at me.” When he said nothing in response, she sighed and began to read softly from the next entry Stefan had written several weeks later. “The Dutchman has died of his lung illness. I nursed him as well as I could. But he was frail, and the heat and constant damp was too much for his weak body to bear. He said he was grateful for my attention. In return, he left me his belongings – a few maps, a pair of ill-fitting boots, and a box of trinkets picked up on his journeys to the South China Sea. Quite a little inheritance. I’ll look at the box later, for the rains have ended and we’re graced with a day of cloudless blue skies.”
Emma shook her head. “I suppose as the illegitimate son of an earl, he never expected anything to be given to him.”
“Good fortune smiled on him because he was kind to the Dutchman. Let’s hope a little of that good fortune smiles on us. We sorely need it.”
She turned a few pages and then continued to read from the journal. “The natives dragged their canoes to the water’s edge today and motioned for me to climb in. The water is even bluer than the sky and calmer than I have ever seen it. Several of The Empress crewmen joined us as we rowed out to sea. I feared the natives intended to drown us, but one young boy showed us an empty turtle shell and explained, after some difficulty in translation, that we were going on a turtle hunt. I tried to quell my excitement, for I understood what my men did not. We would find pearls wherever we found the turtles.”
She glanced up from her reading, remaining silent until he turned to look at her. He furrowed his brow. “Why did you stop reading?”
“Did you know that turtles love to feed on oysters? They suck out the soft interior, then discard the shell and other irritants. It’s strange that such a thing of beauty as a pearl arises from an irritation. Many people think they’re formed from grains of sand embedded in the oyster, but that’s not so. The core of the pearl is often an insect trapped in the oyster’s grip.”
He shifted restlessly in his chair, probably bored by her lecture. “You’ve become quite the expert.”
She shook her head with resignation. “I don’t know nearly as much as I’d like.”
“The Pearls of Fire do not come from any oyster. The question is, what sea creature made those magnificent pearls? We’ll learn more when we reach our destination. Or do you know the answer already?”
She nipped at her lower lip while deciding upon a suitable response.
Hugh sighed. “I wish you’d trust me, Emma.”
When she failed to respond, he shrugged his broad shoulders. “Stefan must have had quite some fun that day. The waters around those islands hold some of the largest oyster beds in the world.”
“Perhaps you’ll find your riches in these ordinary pearls.”
“We’ll see.” He rose and began to pace across the cabin that felt smaller whenever he was in it with her, for he was a big man and the palpable tension between them only heightened the discomfort of their closeness.
