Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
AMANDA SAT ON HER BUNK in the narrow cabin where she slept.
She was sharing the accommodation with Anahid, who was asleep in the cabin’s other berth.
Other than the two bunks, there was a small table, two chairs and a washstand.
Amanda had taken the upper bunk. De Warenne’s children slept in the adjacent cabin, which was larger and more pleasantly furnished.
But she did not care about the furnishings at all.
It was almost dawn. De Warenne had retired to the captain’s cabin for a few hours of rest and even though she ached with restlessness and had not wanted to part company, she had allowed him to escort her to her cabin.
She had pretended to be tired, too. But the past few hours, sailing with him through the night and then into the rising sun, had been the most pleasurable of her life.
Although she hated discussing her future in England, de Warenne’s company was like opium, sweet, potent and addictive.
She could not get enough, it seemed. She wished they were still on deck together.
She fingered her small sack, then pulled out the beautiful lace nightgown and stared at it.
De Warenne was so different from all the other men she had ever known.
He was beautiful and strong, powerful and educated, generous and kind.
Amanda inhaled. He was so kind. He knew she was afraid of England, and he had tried to encourage her to think that all would be well when she finally met her mother.
She knew that was not going to be the case.
Mama had loved her, for Papa had said so, but that had been years ago.
And even if her mother remained devoted to her missing daughter, she was going to be terribly disappointed when she saw the woman her daughter had become.
Amanda had passed too many fancy ladies on Queen Street in Kingston, and they had always stared at her, their pointy noses turned up in the air. There had always been whispers behind her back. “Look at the pirate’s daughter! She is a savage—just like her name!”
And in that moment, Amanda wished she were a real lady.
Because if she were a lady, she had no doubt Mama would welcome her with open arms.
She sighed. Such wishful thinking was foolish.
It was even dangerous. Being with de Warenne had made her briefly forget what was going to happen in another five weeks when she arrived at her mother’s door.
She was almost certain that when she finally faced her mother, she would see shock, horror and then condescension on her face.
She was so afraid that it was better not to think about it—as when she was a child, cowering belowdecks, while the pirates above murdered one another, she must close her eyes and clap her hands over her ears and not think about what might happen.
But de Warenne made her smile; with him, she was firmly in the present, the future so far away, and he made her feel safe. In fact, she had never felt so secure in all of her life. She had never felt quite this way with Papa. Yet there was far more in her heart than feeling so well protected.
She was painfully aware of his masculinity.
His beauty and virility had been obvious from the start, but in the beginning, when she had seen him on the deck of a captured Spanish galleon, she had been a child and he might as well have been a god.
Since meeting him a week ago, her grief had dulled her natural interest. She would always grieve for Papa, but the sadness was softer and easier now.
And the child was truly gone. No child could have this wild, impossible yearning—no child could ache in so many private places—no child could start to dream as she was dreaming.
There was a new yet familiar hunger in her and it seemed to be rapidly escalating.
Seeing him emerging from the ocean that morning like Poseidon hadn’t helped.
“Please don’t let me fall in love with him,” Amanda whispered, and it was only after she had spoken that she realized she had spoken out loud. She tensed, but Anahid never answered her, and she realized the woman was deeply asleep.
Was she falling in love with the handsome, wealthy, nobly born privateer? His image flashed—his soft smile, his bold stare, his taut, hard body, dripping ice water. How could a woman not fall in love with him, she wondered desperately, even a young woman of seventeen?
She did not try to delude herself. He preferred very elegant ladies and he was never going to return her feelings, although he seemed affectionately inclined toward her. But he did want her; she had two eyes in her head and she could tell whenever his lusty nature overcame him.
She hugged the nightgown to her breasts.
Her nipples were hard and tight and her skin tingled.
Her body was hot and cold, all at once. The way he looked at her warmed her impossibly, and he had looked at her many times that night the way a man looks at a woman he is about to bed.
But he had refused her offer to pay for her passage.
She had even hinted that she would still do so, but he had not taken the bait.
However, her heart and her body were demanding his attention now.
She wanted to go to him—and that made her cold with fear.
Because if she gave him her heart, she was ten times the fool—he would ruthlessly break it. Giving him her body would be easier, except he didn’t seem inclined to act on his male needs.
Amanda closed her eyes, wishing she knew what to do.
She could imagine de Warenne cupping her cheek as he had done earlier.
She could feel his hard, large hand on her skin and she trembled.
His behavior was so confusing! But then, she had never known a real gentleman before.
And he did prefer real ladies. Maybe that was what was holding him back.
She looked down at the nightgown. In it, the pirate’s daughter was gone, and she appeared every bit as much a lady as those elegant women strolling in Kingston.
Amanda realized what she had to do and more cold fear crept over her.
But men could be stupid and foolish when it came to fornication.
How many times had Papa said a man was led by his cock, not his brain?
She owed de Warenne so much—more than a few nights in his bed could ever repay—and he did want her, in some basic way.
He might be trying to be a gentleman or he might not want her that much, due to her lack of breeding, but in that nightgown, he might easily be managed by his male parts. Wasn’t it worth a try?
Maybe she wasn’t even falling in love with him. Maybe she wasn’t that different from the trollops and whores who ran with the crew; maybe she was just at that age now where she wished to satisfy her body, as they all so openly would do.
Amanda pulled off her boots and stockings, her cheeks on fire now.
She lay down, jerking her breeches off, and then her drawers.
Tasseled belt, shirt and chemise followed.
Very quietly, she washed herself at the washstand, determined not to awaken the Armenian.
Then she slipped on the nightgown, quickly brushing her hair.
Her heart thundered in her breast, deafening her. She glanced at Anahid, who remained asleep on the bunk—or so she thought, until the women looked right at her. Amanda grimaced, turning away before she could say anything. She slipped outside into the ebony-gray light just before dawn.
At his door she paused breathlessly. She was operating mindlessly and determinedly now. If she thought, she might turn and flee. She knocked hesitantly. “De Warenne?” she whispered.
There was no answer and she tried again.
Amanda was dismayed, for she was certain his door was locked.
Even if it wasn’t, entering without an invitation was a grave trespass, indeed.
She tried the latch and started, because his door wasn’t bolted from inside.
Her heart lurched and lunged; she pushed the door open and slipped into his cabin.
No lights were on, but gray light was filtering into the cabin from the portholes.
She could see him lying flat out on his back in the huge crimson bed, the thin silk sheets pulled up to his waist. He was clearly sleeping in the nude.
He didn’t stir, which surprised her—how could he sleep through her illicit entry?
She would have thought de Warenne to be a man who slept with one eye open and both ears hearing every sound and whisper.
She tried again. “De Warenne?”
He did not move. His broad, sculpted chest, sprinkled lightly with darker tawny hair, slowly and rhythmically rose and fell.
Barely able to believe that he remained asleep, Amanda started forward.
He slept on. She lifted an edge of the silk sheet.
Amanda glimpsed his lean hip, his long hard thigh, and she slid under the sheet with him.
Her pounding heart made her dizzy enough to faint. Moisture exploded between her thighs.
And suddenly he was on top of her, her wrists in a hard grasp, pinned over her head. She cried out and met furious blue eyes.
“What seduction is this?” he roared.
Amanda couldn’t speak because she was so shocked that he had been awake, waiting for her, all this time.
He held himself over her but his weight was somehow transferred onto her through the firm pressure of his hands and legs.
For, while he clamped her wrists, his thighs were between her own legs, forcing them wide.
Her nightgown had been pushed up and his skin was shocking against her bare thighs, sparklike.
And she had been right—he was entirely nude, because his manhood leaped between them.
A wave of pleasure began.
He inhaled, shaking. “Answer me!”