Too Great A Temptation Page 8

  He let out a disgruntled sigh. “Not this again.”

  “If you want a truce, James, then give me a chance. I deserve one. You took Quincy on board without even testing him first. I’m at least willing to show you what I can do.”

  His delft blue eyes brimming with misery, he grumbled, “You’re determined to put me through hell, aren’t you?”

  “You’re putting yourself through hell.” Her voice softened then, as she reached over to place a reassuring hand on his forearm. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I won’t fall into a fishing stream—or the Atlantic, for that matter—and drown.”

  James’s look of misery turned murderous. “Will and his yapping.”

  “Forget about Will,” she said. “And don’t worry about me, either. I can take care of myself. Let me show you.”

  That stubborn blaze in his eyes dwindled to a mellow kindle. He took in a few loud breaths, likely in protest, before relenting, “All right, Belle, you can prove yourself.”

  She squeezed his forearm in excitement. “Really?”

  “Aye,” he said gruffly, “but you’ll be treated just like the rest of the crew.”

  She jumped up and kissed his brow. “Thank you, James. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

  “I mean it, Belle, no special treatment.”

  Another kiss on the brow. “I know.”

  And before he could stress again how hard life would be for her as an ordinary tar, she ran from the galley and up onto the deck, determined not to miss another moment of the star shower.

  The evening was late, the moon high in the heavens. Her heart was light. Lighter than it had been in a long time. She wanted to hoot with laughter, but she contained her joy. Instead she celebrated by feasting her eyes on the glittering specks of light shooting across the night sky.

  She was in awe. She always was whenever she had the privilege of witnessing one of nature’s finest performances. And how appropriate to have a star shower on the night James finally surrendered his stance, giving her the opportunity to prove herself a capable seafarer. It was as if fate itself was congratulating her on her success.

  Mirabelle clasped her hands together under her chin and reveled in the unearthly display, so brilliant. Out here, on the clear and crisp ocean, the falling stars seemed brighter, more magical than on land. Another great reason to be a sailor.

  A soft breeze drifted through the ship, teasing her long hair. It was an enchanting moment. Life stood still for just a second, and her heart captured every detail in perfect clarity to cherish for years to come.

  Staring at the plummeting stars, Mirabelle suddenly found herself wondering if Damian would enjoy the vision. Would he appreciate the dazzling sight as much as she did?

  Without thinking, she abandoned the spectacle in the heavens and scanned the deck, searching for Damian. Her eyes rested on his tall, wiry frame, leaning against the starboard rail. Despite the hovering darkness, she recognized his figure instantly, having become so well acquainted with it the other night. And although it was too dim to see his face, she could feel him looking at her.

  A warmth spread through her. Titillating…but also comforting.

  Mirabelle returned her gaze to the glimmering lights in the sky. She finally had her chance to become a seafarer, and it was more imperative than ever that she prove herself an admirable tar. Nothing could jeopardize her chance for victory…nothing save one very sexy and mysterious navigator.

  She definitely had to keep her distance from Damian. She sensed he was the only man in the world who could thwart her dream of sailing now.

  Chapter 8

  T he sailors erupted in a chorus of hoarse guffaws.

  Damian had been dragged into the fray of things by a well-recovered Quincy, forced to partake in the revelry with a mug of ale in his hands. He hadn’t touched the spirit, though. Little by little, when the chap wasn’t looking, he dumped more and more of his ale into Quincy’s mug.

  Assembled on deck, most of the crew had gathered in celebration. There was no particular cause for celebration, Damian had discovered. The men simply enjoyed toasting to freedom. Or perhaps it was brotherhood? In any event, the jokes and ale poured forth, the men besotted and loving it.

  The captain was conspicuously absent, as was Mirabelle. Damian looked up ahead to find James conversing with the helmsman, but Belle was nowhere in sight. He had watched her earlier in the night, gazing at the plummeting stars with obvious awe and appreciation. She was more breathtaking than any twinkling light, though. More fascinating, for sure, and he had found himself captivated by her earnest expression of joy rather than by any falling star…

  “And then,” said Brice, the quartermaster, gesticulating with his fingers, “Johnny over here eyes a plump redhead by the bar.”

  Young Johnny blushed and muttered, “Shut your mouth, Brice.”

  But Brice wasn’t about to do that, not when he had so many eager ears his way. “Johnny gathers up his valor and swaggers over to the redhead, but she’s too busy chortlin’ with another wench.” Brice puffs out his chest in imitation. “Johnny taps the redhead on the shoulder and utters some lovin’ words…”

  Johnny tackled Brice to the deck at that point, but a wheezing Brice managed to rasp, “…and then the redhead, lookin’ all confused, asks, ‘Which one o’ us are ye talkin’ to, mate? Me or my friend here?’”

  Another burst of boisterous laughter. Damian commiserated with the poor cross-eyed Johnny, who turned a bright crimson red just then. But Johnny was a relatively fresh member of the band of merchants, a brother to one of the older men, according to Quincy, and the chap needed to be properly initiated—in other words, ribbed until thoroughly mortified.

  Damian glanced around the circle of merry tars. All brothers, really. Some bound by blood, others by friendship. Whatever their relation, their tight comradeship was evident, and he was gripped by a sudden pang of loss at the sight of them.

  Clutching his mug of ale, Damian resisted the impulse to down what was left of the frothy liquid in one greedy gulp. The carousing around him reminded him of his own empty existence—of the loss of his brother. Suddenly he wanted to immerse himself in the familiarity of depravity, like one of the heckling sailors around him. He was tired of enduring his miserable existence in stark sobriety.

  But despite that pressing urge, he would not give in to temptation. He had a duty to carry out. And as difficult as it might be to withstand his oppressive loneliness, Damian would not surrender to his old dissolute ways until his obligation to Adam was satisfied. If he took so much as one sip of ale, he knew he wouldn’t be able to refrain from another and another still. Before long, he’d end up foxed and incompetent, just like his former worthless self, and his duty to Adam would be forever unfulfilled.

  He couldn’t do that to his kin. The one small, untainted part of Damian that had loved his brother, that still loved his brother, gave him just enough strength to face each and every wretched day. He would see his vow of vengeance to an end. He was adamant.

  But he could not sit and listen to the brotherly banter any longer. It was like a knife to the heart. Quietly, he excused himself. The laughter still rife, only Quincy took particular notice of his withdrawal, quirking a curious brow.

  Damian made his way down the hatchway, his heart thundering. Memories of his old degenerate ways came back to haunt him. He could still recall the nights of illicit decadence, the obscenity of three women at a time, drowning in liquid fire—brandy was always his particular favorite. He’d lose a small fortune at the turn of a card and not give a bloody whit. Aye, he could remember. Remember the lonely despair whenever he sobered up. It was a gaping chasm he could never fill. He had dumped lust and drink and coin down that hole in an attempt to fill it. An endless stream of debauchery into a bottomless pit.

  But the true infinity of his misery didn’t strike him until after Adam’s death. Once his brother was gone, Damian had realized the only semblance of peace, of companionship, he had eve
r felt in this pitiful world was when he was with his kin. But with Adam now dead, so, too, was the chance of ever finding that peace again.

  A crushing weight on his chest, Damian was oblivious to his surroundings, conscious only of the pain slicing through him. So when a warm and soothing feminine body crashed into him, he wrapped his arms tight around it, desperate to banish the solitude suffocating him.

  Without thinking, he pressed his mouth hard over Belle’s, stifling her protest, drinking in the sweetness of companionship…of life. She tasted so bloody good. Like hope, if hope had a taste. But he didn’t give a damn about technicalities right then. He cared only about the warmth sweeping through him, smothering him, taking away the darkness that had lived so long inside him.

  Damian pushed her up against the wall, the yearning to never let her go blanketing him. At some point in the kiss, Mirabelle had stopped struggling and returned his embrace with the strength of an Atlantic winter gale, squeezing his neck and hooking her leg around his calf. The desire to consume her intensified the more she offered herself to him, and he began to fear letting her go, losing the connection that had been forged between them.

  He had been alone for so long. Alone in hell. And Mirabelle’s company was like balmy rain to his burned and tattered spirit. She washed away the misery of so many desolate years. It was intense—and frightening—at the same time.

  “Damian?”

  The intruding voice jostled Damian from his spiraling thoughts. He parted from Belle, slammed against the opposite wall in his haste, all the while devouring her with a raw and undeniable hunger in his eyes.

  She was breathless, like him. Stunned, like him. And if his imagination wasn’t deceiving him, gripped with unquenched desire, like him.

  Damian tore his gaze away from her and looked down the hall to find Quincy approaching.

  “Damian, are you all right?” The kid glanced between him and Mirabelle, a puzzled expression resting on his brow. “Why did you leave the deck so suddenly? Is something wrong?”

  “No,” said Damian, curtly. That was all the breath he could muster to make a reply.

  And before Quincy caught on to what had just happened between him and Mirabelle, Damian marched down the corridor, abandoning the siblings.

  His soul was in turmoil, twisting in every conceivable way. The desire to return to Belle and carry her off to an isolated cabin for a thorough bedding engrossed him. And an equally overwhelming desire to stay the hell away from her consumed him.

  Shit, was he really so weak? Could he truly have disgraced his brother over the stirrings of his cock? Over the pathetic cries of one lonely voice inside him? Another second more and Quincy would have witnessed the embrace. Then what? Was he to swim back home to England once the furious brothers had tossed him overboard?

  Guilt and self-loathing quickly replaced what little comfort he had found in Belle’s arms.

  Damian clenched his fists. He would stay away from her, he vowed. He had not come this far in his quest for pirate blood to fail over a kiss.

  Chapter 9

  D amian slammed against the wall, then toppled to the floor. He tried to stand, but the ship lurched beneath him, tossing him back to the ground as a child would a rag doll. Deafening cracks of thunder exploded overhead. The rain beat down in sleets.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  There had been tepid weather the last week or so. A few days of northwesterly winds, a few days of idle drifting. Nothing to predict the monstrous gale that had hit the vessel not a quarter of an hour ago.

  Ensconced below deck, tending to minor repairs, Damian had felt the pitch and wallowing of the floorboards beneath him. At first, buried in the hold, he’d assumed the tempestuous movements nothing more than the result of being immersed so deep below sea level. Apparently that was not the case.

  Not entirely sure how he managed to get up and remain standing, Damian forced his wavering self through the stairwell, staggered down the corridor, then stumbled up another set of steps that led to the main deck.

  He stepped into the deluge, at the mercy of the lashing waves. A gust of wind blasted him, whipping piercing spray into his face and body, nearly knocking him back down the opening whence he’d come.

  The smoky sky, congested with sinister, billowing clouds, banished the afternoon sun. But there was still enough visibility to outline the silhouettes busily taking in the fore and mizzen sails. It was the mainsail that was stuck, however, and if it wasn’t reefed soon, it would shred under the overwhelming pressure of the storm, bringing the mast down with it.

  Braving the opposing winds, Damian made his way over to the distorted figures.

  His heart tightened.

  Faint shadows, illuminated under the sizzle of lightning, revealed the most incredible sight.

  What the devil was she doing out here?

  Struggling with the brail, Mirabelle tried to bring the thrashing rope under control. Just then, a mammoth wave surged and crashed onto the deck. It was a few heart-stopping seconds before the tumultuous waters receded and Damian could breathe once more at the sight of her still standing on deck.

  He was going to wring her neck if they survived this ordeal. She had no business being out in such a devastating storm. She had no business being on the blasted ship in the first place!

  Making his way over to Mirabelle, Damian smothered her in his embrace. It felt so good to touch her again, to envelop her in his arms. He hadn’t come near the woman in more than a week, and the fact that he had nearly lost her just a moment ago made his euphoria all the more potent.

  Grabbing the stubborn brail and winding it around his palm and wrist, Damian yanked it tautly, the rope thrumming with strain in the tempest’s frenzy.

  Belle shouted over her shoulder, “I have to cut the tangled rigging loose!”

  “Are you mad?”

  She’d be washed overboard the moment she released the rope. And just to prove his point, another comber sloshed over the deck, its stinging numbness taking away his breath—and almost taking away Belle.

  The rope dug into his hands, red welts appearing in the wake of the burning friction. His muscles hardened around Mirabelle, keeping her locked between his arms, while the retreating waters poured back into the turbulent ocean.

  “Don’t argue!” she shouted. “You’re strong enough to pull the canvas down. When I let go, you’ll have the brunt of the weight. Hang on!”

  The woman was daft. He noticed her swipe a dagger from her boot and wedge it firmly between her teeth. Like hell he’d let her go! Let another sailor risk his neck to cut the tangled rigging. She wasn’t going anywhere. And she realized that soon enough, squirming in his arms when he refused to release her.

  Another wave slammed onto the deck, fiercer than the last. The body pressed hard against him was gone, his arms empty. Damian’s heart stopped beating.

  “Mirabelle!”

  The added pressure on the rope, leaving him struggling to control it, had his frantic eyes sweeping the deck up ahead, and his heart pumping blood once again.

  He was definitely going to throttle the woman when this was over. She had slipped out from under his embrace in the confusion of the pummeling waves, and was now gradually making her way over to the mainmast, gripping the brail for support. Though visibility was scarce, he watched her shadowy figure every step of the way, and unbeknownst to him, it was a long while before he took another gulp of air.

  Mirabelle choked back the rain and coiled her arms around the mainmast. What the hell did Damian think he was doing, trying to hold her back like that? He hadn’t said a word to her in more than a week, had barely glanced her way, and now, when all their lives were at risk, his despotic tendencies returned? The temperamental bounder. If he wasn’t kissing her, he was berating her. If he wasn’t ignoring her, he was crushing her in his embrace. And always at the most importune times!

  Removing the knife from her mouth, Mirabelle began to saw at the interwoven lines. The heavy bo
nds refused to give way, though, so she intensified her efforts. But with her fingers numb from the frigid waters, her progress was slow.

  Curse the wretched storm! The squall had come from nowhere, giving no more than a moment’s notice of its imminent arrival. There was so little time to pull in the sails, and virtually no time to batten down the ship.

  Mirabelle couldn’t even spare a glance to see if the crew were still holding on to the brails. She prayed that they were. The Bonny Meg had been through worse storms than this, but she’d had her sails furled at the time and weathered the turmoil.

  The mast groaned and splintered. If they survived Poseidon’s current wrath, it wouldn’t be by much.

  Her teeth clenched in defiance of the storm, Mirabelle sliced through the bonds at last. The canvas came skidding down, the crew grappling to tie it flat against the boom.

  Another slash of lightning sliced through the angry heavens, and Mirabelle caught sight of the jibs still flying. It was never-ending, the pitfalls to this voyage. They’d already done battle with one tempest on their way to New York, and were now fighting their second. The mainmast had nearly collapsed, and now the jibs were threatening to tatter to pieces. She had to lower them. Inflated by the surging winds, the ballooned sails could mean the difference between the ship staying in one piece and being ripped apart.

  Had she already cursed the storm? Well, she cursed it again.

  Lodging the knife between her teeth, she slung her arm over her brow and pushed her way over to the bowsprit. Hoisting her knee up onto the rail, she crawled along the extended spar.

  The grueling minutes it took for her to reef the sails seemed to stretch on forever. When at last she brought the jibs down, she inched her way backward along the spar…but she didn’t get very far.

  Mirabelle gawked in awe of the black wall of water racing toward her. There was no time to think or even fear. Instinct took over and she draped her arms around the bowsprit, holding it tight. But it was futile, she knew. She would never withstand such a monstrous comber.