Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
I hope, while Women have any spirit left, they will exert it all in showing how worthy they are of better usage, by not submitting tamely to such misplaced arrogance [from men].
— “SOPHIA” (BELIEVED TO BE LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU), WOMAN NOT INFERIOR TO MAN
Night had just fallen when Gideon sauntered on deck.
It was a clear, balmy night, with the sky dripping diamond stars over the ship like a king’s jewel-studded cloak.
He filled his lungs with the tangy air. He would miss the quiet nights aboard the Satyr, the creak of timbers, the slap of waves against the seasoned oak hull.
Although in future he and his men might sail to the Cape Verde Islands for supplies, they would no longer spend weeks at sea under the brilliant sky.
He surveyed the sailors on watch, then strolled the deck. A vague dissatisfaction nipped at him, destroying the pleasure he usually took in nights at sea. But then, he’d felt that often lately. That was why he’d decided to give up piracy for Atlantis.
The sea chases and the thrill of taking gold from noblemen he detested weren’t enough anymore, not when he knew what would happen if he continued. Piracy brought its followers an early death. There was no such thing as an old pirate.
Maybe some men didn’t care about dying young, maybe some wanted to leave this world in a blaze of excitement, but he wasn’t one. He intended to live a long, full life and not end it on the gallows. Or a ship, for that matter.
He’d given twenty-one years of his life to the sea.
He’d been only twelve when his cursed father had finally drunk himself to death, leaving his only child penniless, friendless, and alone.
So when, after a year of fighting off hunger and looking for work, he’d been noticed by a sea captain who’d taken pity on him and offered him a position as cabin boy, he’d jumped at the chance.
Later, when the American government had commissioned privateers to harass the English, he’d eagerly sunk all the money he’d saved into purchasing a sloop.
It had seemed as good a way as any to survive.
Before long, he’d done well enough to exchange the sloop for a pinnace, and the pinnace for the Satyr.
Throughout those years, he’d looked for only two traits in his crewmen: that they have no wives or families, so their courage would be the fiercer because they had nothing to lose; and that they hate the British as much as he did.
His careful hiring had proven advantageous, for they’d served him well. When the war had ended and the same men in Washington who’d prompted them to steal from the English now expected him and his crew to throw down their arms and make peace with them, he and his men had chosen a third path—piracy.
They’d had a good run of it, to be sure.
But they’d begun to tire of a sailor’s uncertain and lonely life, and he more than any of them.
To his surprise, the gold and jewels he’d stolen from his enemy didn’t satisfy him.
Even tormenting the lordlings had lost its appeal.
He wanted more—a real future, not just a series of voyages and captures.
He wanted to build something that was his, something good and solid.
He could do that on Atlantis. They could all do that on Atlantis.
He scanned the milling crowd, noting that the men not on watch were well on their way to gaining the women’s affections.
Soon he’d have to call Barnaby to bring the women below and lock them in, but just now he wanted to savor this moment.
He’d accomplished his goal. He’d found women for his men.
And they would all soon be working together for a common good.
So why did he still feel so restless, so dissatisfied, when he should be rejoicing in his success? Why did he have this nagging fear that he’d handled the acquisition of the convict women badly?
Because of that blasted Englishwoman. Sara had planted these foolish doubts in his mind.
Sara, with the caramel-tinted eyes and the soft, yielding body …
Sara, who could make a man lust with only a toss of her copper hair.
His loins tightened, and he groaned. No woman had ever affected him quite this way before.
Like any sailor, he’d had his dalliances, but no sloe-eyed island beauty had ever sent his blood racing at just the thought of her.
It didn’t matter what Sara did to his blood … or anything else, he told himself with a grimace. There was more to marriage than passion. His parents had proven that.
The last thing he wanted was to let his cock lead him to take up with some pampered daughter of an earl—even an adopted one. Her kind of woman was never satisfied with what a man could give her. Her kind of woman never gave a man a moment’s peace.
Moving to the rail, he leaned against it with his back to the sea.
No, Sara Willis wasn’t for him. He’d have to look elsewhere among this crowd for a wife.
With a curious distraction, he watched the dance of courtship playing itself out before him, wondering if he could indeed throw himself into it with the enthusiasm of his men.
He ought to. That was what he needed—another woman, a different woman to pursue, one who more closely fitted his idea of a wife.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, then winced when his fingers touched a wadded up cloth. Sara’s cap. The one that had covered her glorious mass of fine, silky hair.
With an oath, he jerked it out of his pocket and tossed it into the sea.
He never should have taken down her hair.
He certainly shouldn’t have kissed her. His attraction to her was as unwise as sailing directly into the wind, and kissing her had only sharpened his desire.
Confound it, she was a witch to occupy his thoughts so constantly even when she wasn’t in sight!
He scanned the crowd uneasily. Wait, she wasn’t in sight. Where was she? At the other end of the ship? Below decks with one of his men? That brought a scowl to his face.
While he was still looking for Sara, another woman approached him, a buxom blond whose eyes skimmed his flanks like a dock official inspecting a ship.
She took his hand and put it on her waist with a coy glance from heavy-lidded eyes.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the man who saved us from that wretched prison ship.
You’re lookin’ for yer own woman to mate with, aren’t you?
And Queenie’s just the woman for that.” Tugging his hand up to rest on one of her ample breasts, she leaned into his palm with a smile.
“I got everythin’ a man like you could want, and more besides. ”
A frown of distaste crossed his brow as he jerked his hand from her breast. “Sorry, Queenie, I’ve got other things on my mind tonight.
” It was clear what this woman had been imprisoned for, and he was in no mood to put up with such solicitations.
Sara mightn’t be the woman for him, but neither was Queenie.
Unfortunately, Queenie didn’t seem to realize that.
Quick as lightning, she slid her hand to cover the bulge in his breeches created by his thoughts of Sara.
“Ooh, guv’nor,” she cooed, her accent thickening to a more cockney one as she rubbed him with practiced fingers, “y’re lyin’ through yer teeth.
Y’re horn-mad, you are, and I know just how to soothe that sort of madness. ”
He didn’t even crack a smile at what was probably an unintentional pun on his name. Instead, he shoved her hand away. “Every man on this ship is horn-mad tonight, Queenie. Go find one of them to entice. I’m not interested.”
She looked insulted. “You savin’ it for somebody else then?
” When he lifted one eyebrow, a mulish expression crossed her face.
“You savin’ it for ‘milady’? ‘Cause if you are, y’re wastin’ yer time.
She thinks herself too good for the likes of me and you.
She’ll not satisfy that burnin’ in your breeches, I warrant you that. ”
The fact that she was probably right didn’t make her words sit any easier. He fixed her with his most blistering look, the one that sent his men scurrying for cover. The blood drained from her face.
“Thank you for the warning about Miss Willis,” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “But I don’t take advice from whores.”
That was enough to send her flouncing off in a huff.
But not enough to gain him solitude, for another woman appeared to take her place.
This could get tedious. When he’d given the women a choice, he hadn’t thought they’d be running after him with such enthusiasm.
He started to walk away, but the woman called out to him.
“Cap’n Horn, sir! I brought you your supper!” When he halted and turned toward her, she thrust a plate loaded with food at him. “Mr. Drummond told me to give you this.”
She wouldn’t look at him, and he suddenly realized this wasn’t a task she’d wanted to perform. He should’ve known that not all the women were of Queenie’s insolent stamp, but he was unused to having a woman do things for him, so he’d overreacted.
Relaxing, he took the plate from her. “Thanks. I must admit I’m hungry.” She seemed at a loss for words, and now that she was standing nearer, he could see the fear on her face. “What’s your name?”
“Ann Morris, sir.” Her eyes flitted from him to the other women. Clearly she wanted to be anywhere but here talking to him, and for some reason that made him determined to allay her fears.
“Morris. That’s a Welsh name, isn’t it?”
Her eyes went wide. Then she nodded. “From Carmarthenshire, sir.”
He smiled. “You needn’t keep calling me ‘sir,’ you know. I’m no better than you or any of the other women.”
“Yes, sir. I-I mean, yes.”