The Bargain: A Port Elizabeth Regency Tale: Episode 2 (7 page)

She looked to the footboard and counted the carved leaves notched on the frame. What was she to say to his back?
 

Sorry.
 

I didn't mean to fall.
 

I didn't want folks questioning your leadership.
 

Instead, she pushed herself to sit. Sucking in at the sting of her arm, she dropped the blanket and pried off her wet robe.
 

He turned. His angry face began to twist. His nose wrinkled, as if he smelled something horrible. “What are you doing?”
 

Her heart started pounding, but she worked the first button on her nightgown. She wasn't going to be a victim this time. No tears. She forbade them from coming. She’d allow him his due and get it over with. “At least you won’t kill me, or threaten me when you take all I have.”

His eyes scrunched up, and he plodded to the light, rolling the knob to make the room blindingly bright. “Well, if you intend to give me a show, I might as well see everything.”

She swiped at her eyes. “No jokes. Just come here and be done with it.”

He inhaled a long breath. Then a chuckle crept out of the grim lines of his mouth. “I think you need a little more practice at looking enticing, or at least interested.”
 

With a shake of his head, he undid the ties to his shirt and pulled the wet thing free, exposing the hardened planes of his chest. The wet cotton plopped onto floor with a slap.

The light made his skin looked tanned, with tufts of dark hair in the valley below his throat.
 

A gasp left her, not just from the sheer strength hidden by his London clothes, but the horrid scar zigzagging below is heart, extending beyond the waistband of his breeches.

He plodded near and clasped the headboard, his eyes surely studying, measuring her. “Call me crazed, a man of sense and expectation, but a frightened woman doesn't make me feel romantic.”

Trying to not look at him or wonder about the scar, she folded her naked feet up under her. “You’re crazy. Men will do what they do.”

He stretched and tugged the blanket back around her. The smell of him, woodsy and salty, reached her nose. At least he wouldn't reek when he got around to touching her. “You look chilly. I’ve been dunked in the ocean more times than I care to remember. I’m used to the cold.”

How long would he let her agonize, thinking of being forced, of being told it was her fault, and the hopin’ no babies birthed of the evil would come? Counting, sipping slow breaths, she again tugged the blanket down to her waist.
 

He sat in a chair, tapping the small table to his left. “Well, I should close up this Bible. Wouldn't want passages of caring for the weak or doing unto others slipping out and ruining this seduction.” The leather book closed with a thud. He must’ve been truthful about his worship at sea.
 

Cocking his head back to lean on the heavily carved spindles of the chair, he lifted his boot to her. “Pull.”

Stretching her unhurt arm, she clutched the nearly-dry hide and yanked it free. The jarring sent up a vibration, making her bones ache. “You do the next one. I can’t.”

His face lifted and a small smile peeked. “Well, how could you with a hurt shoulder? You should truly learn to just tell me the problem.”

She tested her arm, trying to move it. The sting made fresh tears come to her eyes. “Then how could you wish to ravish me in this condition?”

He propped up his head in hands and stared at her. “True, I prefer bedmates who are not writhing from the pain of an injury.”

“Then, I can leave?” Hopping off the bed, she scooped up her robe.

He swung his leg wide, blocking her. “It’s not that simple. The captain’s mistress can’t leave after five minutes.“

“Mistress?” Her heart shriveled. He did intend to punish her.

“Yes, my lover. You’re the captain’s woman, Precious Jewell. No man on this ship will dare touch you if you are mine.”

She wasn't worried about the other men right now, just this one with the intense spark in his eyes. “I’m no lover. Not when forced.”
 

He sighed long and hard, but what could be frustrating him? He was about to take the rest of her pride.
 

“No one is forcing any thing, Jewell. I’m the last man you should worry about.”

His gaze felt hot and thick, as if he measured the thickness of her nightgown or if he could see down through to her stays. She bundled the robe closer to her bosom. “Then let me leave or make good on your threats. I don't want to wait in fear of you.”

His brow cocked. “So, mouse, you are giving me permission? How very interesting.”

That didn't quite come out like she wanted, but something in her gut wanted an end to his game. “You think this is easy for me? Just get it over with; the waiting to be humiliated is the worst.”

He rubbed at the light scruff on his chin. “You and my darling Eliza are very similar. She wanted things on her terms, but sometimes life doesn't play along.”

She balled the fist of her working arm and shook it at him. “Just start already.”

“Start what? Molesting you? You work for me. Blast it. I enslaved you but a month ago. A woman needs a choice. You can't choose under bondage or fear. You must always choose.”
 

His deep voice grew lower, slowing, making each of his syllables punch her in the gut. “I know. I have suspected since the night of the storm that some blackguard didn't let you choose before. That’s why you jump when I touch you. You freeze if my arms are about you. That’s not what I or any decent man wants.”

Backing up, the footboard stopped her retreat, poking her leg. There was no escape from his accusation. It was true, but she couldn’t talk about that time with him or anyone.
 

Yet, the tremble in her body wouldn’t quit. Oh, how low Lord Welling must think of her. That was it. He didn't want another man’s garbage. That horrible fiend who’d taken her trust, who’d erased every easy smile since, was still with her, still cutting up her insides. She rubbed her neck, her voice filling with anguish over a nightmare that refused to go away. “Please let me go to my cabin. Jonas may have awakened with the ruckus. I won’t come out for the rest of the trip.”

“I can't let you out that door. How do I put this for your stubborn ears? If you don't look thoroughly ravished, the dogs will be on you again. I can't beat everyone up defending you.”

There was no guile in his voice. He wanted to protect her. That silly notion made her want to cry aloud. Instead, she swiped at her nose and glanced back at him, hoping to look like stone.

His arms folded. His mouth huffed. “I’ve dumped the ringleader in the ocean. Won't be much of a crew if I have to throw them all in."

“You should. They all need a lashing for hurting women.” She covered her mouth, hating that her fingers shook. Though she wanted to lie down and sleep off the pain, she stood up straight. "I can't be here, with you looking at me. I see enough pity in the mirror some days."
 

“Stay until morning. You’ll be branded my woman, and left alone by the crew. Then, if you have the foolhardy notion to get some air, you can do it without fear of attack or anything that will have you swinging from the bulwark. Don't be fearful of my help.”

The pain addled her thinking, but it sure did sound as if it was important to him for her to stay. She rubbed her arm. The pain radiated, more so since she had tried to let it hang normally. “Give me another reason, one that has meaning for you."

His gaze remained steady, unflinching. “I’ve said enough.”

She shook her head, glancing at him, daring him to state his real purpose, but he refused to move. “I'll stay in my cabin until we dock at Port Elizabeth. I’ll manage in my room.”

“Your spirit is too high to be caged, but self-interest may help you make the right decision. Here’s a new bargain for you. I’ll take a year off your servitude if you stay put. It’s worth it to me to not have another confrontation with my crew.”

Was he so anxious over her safety that he’d ply her with an earlier release from their agreement? Lord Welling didn't seem fearful of his crew. And he'd tossed that big fellow as if he were paper. Perhaps, that fancy-looking man who questioned the baron before was at the root of this. Maybe more was at risk than Precious could surmise.

"Do we have a deal?"

His smile was too broad. Lord Welling's offer was cruel. Would he always search for another lever to push, another screw to turn to control her?
 

Thinking hurt now. Why couldn't she lie down in peace in her cabin? She sidestepped him, but he caught her elbow on the hurting side, sending her to her knees.
 

He sprung from the chair and whipped her up into his arms. Her warm cheek smashed against his cold collarbone, but she didn’t care. It felt good to not lift her head.

 
“I didn't mean to injure you, Precious.”

“Not you,” she gasped and tried to blot out the searing pain as she'd done before, but couldn’t. Tears streamed out. “My arm hurts so bad.”

He carried her to the bed and set her betwixt him and the headboard. With his long fingers, he tugged at one button of her nightgown. Then another. "I need to see the shoulder."

She couldn't breathe, couldn't stop him. She wiggled a little to keep him from seeing the scars upon her back. “No.”

"Yes." He undid a final one and opened the gown. He pushed it down, exposing just her arm and more of her neck.
 

With a careful caress, he pushed at her stays and freed her shoulder. “This is bad, Precious.”

Her arm looked inflamed, twice its normal size. Too scared, too injured to move, she let his fingers trail her arm. He pressed, with his thumb, the high bone on top of the sore flesh and a noise like a wailing tomcat fled her lips.

His eyes narrowed and grim lines swallowed his mouth. “It’s not broken, but you popped your shoulder out of the socket, either from hanging onto the hull or by hitting the water hard. I have to push it back in. Do you trust me, Precious?”

She glanced up at him between waves of throbbing aches. The curve of the muscles of his forearms, his solid chest with the horrible scar that looked as if something had tried to cut him in two, all made her feel safe. He knew suffering and perhaps could understand hers. Maybe that was why he was so kind to her. But it still didn't add up, the concern versus the battle for control.

"Precious, you still there?"

"Yes. Fix it. I’ve no choice, do I?”

His fingers stilled from the slight massage of her shoulder. “You have a choice. Do you trust me?”

As much as she wanted to pretend she didn’t, she couldn't lie about how she felt. “Yes. I do.”

“Good mouse.” He put one arm behind her neck and stretched his palm to cushion her shoulder. With his other hand, he clasped the front of the joint. “This is going to hurt like nothing you ever felt.”

“Doubt it. I know a lot of ache.”

His chin nodded, and his gaze latched onto hers. Concern, and something else, some unreadable warmth, colored his intense stare. “Get ready to screech.”
 

"Don't let me scream. They'll think you're hurting me. You're not like them."

His lips tensed. "You don't know what I'm capable of."

She lifted her good hand to his chest; her fingers couldn't help but fall on the deep scar. "I don't want to sound weak to them or you."

"I won't let them hear. You ready for me to make this shoulder right?""

She nodded and counted, “One, two, three, four, ready.”

With a mighty shove, he snapped the joint back into place. The pop sounded like a china cup slamming against a rock. It deafened, but not enough to mask her howling.
 

Not that she could, not that she wanted him to stop, but, with his firm lips, he covered hers and caught all the remaining high notes of her scream.

The world grew black and inky, and his mouth stayed on hers, claiming her until she saw nothing at all.

Gareth put his scope in his pocket and laid his hands at noon and three on the wheel. The setting sun had framed the right side of the ship, made making the water have a blood orange color. If red stayed in the water and away from the morning, they just might make it to Port Elizabeth without a horrid storm delaying them. Well, no more woman-made incidents. His brain filled with thoughts of Jonas’s stubborn nanny. Hopefully, there would be no Precious Jewell-made storms.

Three days ago, the girl fell into the ocean. Now she lay sick in his cabin with him and Mrs. Narvel taking turns caring for her. It was probably a good thing Precious was so bull-headed. Her fever had spiked pretty high before it broke, but she fought with all she had and then some. The girl warred hard against the ocean, and against him with the punch she’d delivered on the bow. That kind of fire comes from withstanding something horrid. What happened in the girl’s past? Would it always drive her to be reckless, running away in the middle of the night or dropping into an ocean?
 

Eliza never said anything of Precious's story, just that she couldn't do without her.

The wind blew hard, kicking his thin cravat into his chin. She’d lashed out wildly, slapping at him at the height of her sleep. It made sleeping next to her difficult, but far more interesting than being alone.

What was he to do with Precious Jewell?

Ralston marched up side him. “Captain, I can take over watch for you.”

He folded his arms and stared at the Judas who almost made his men turn against him. “Not too busy stoking rebellion to do your duties?”

A sheepish, almost boyish, grin peeked from underneath his mustache. He wrenched at his neck. “I’d like to blame things on the liquor, but that ain't it. I shoulda known you were still all man. Blast the rumors.”

The false rumors that a cannon blast had taken all his strength had persisted since war. Marrying Eliza and having an heir had squelched most of it, but now they appeared again. He turned and looked out at the vast ocean. Maybe focusing on the cold water would ease the volcano of anger ready to blow in his system. "Ralston, next time, I'm not going to give you any rope, unless it's about your neck."