A Perfect Lady, page 9
part #3 of The Mackenzie Brothers Series
The air’s tang seemed saltier, fishier, and whatever she found refreshing in it vanished to turn her stomach. Not only was it fouler, but the air felt thicker as well. Thick and salty and horrid, and she swallowed hard as breathing became more difficult. And the more she struggled to breathe, the harder it became. The waves crashed louder now, only she had the terrifying feeling it wasn’t the ocean she heard.
With that, she sank into James. He caught her easily, sliding his arm about her waist to hold her up. Tears stung her eyes, hot and prickly, but she managed to hold them back as Weaver’s men disassembled the boards and returned to their own ship to pull anchor. She let James hold her, let him pull her a bit closer as he murmured, “It’s over, Rebecca. Nothing to fear now.”
“I know.” The air thinned again, and she could resume breathing. Those annoying tears blurred everything, and no matter how hard or how fast she blinked, her eyes simply wouldn’t clear as quickly as her lungs did.
“Come.” He guided her away from the railing, away from the sight of the Caravan and her crew, and she didn’t resist as he led her toward the stairs. By now, everything was back as it should be, but she wanted to take herself as far away from the Caravan and her terrible captain as possible.
Inside their cabin, she frowned up at him. A narrow rivulet of blood dribbled down his cheek, curving toward his jaw. Stretching up on her toes, she dabbed at the broken skin over his cheekbone, where Weaver’s fist had met his face. The welt hadn’t bruised yet, and some of the swelling had gone down.
He sucked in a sharp breath, jerking away from her as she touched him. “Leave it be. The bleeding will stop on its own.”
The cut was deeper than she imagined a fist could inflict. No sooner had she taken her hand away than the trickle turned into another rivulet. “Will your ship’s surgeon trust me with needle and thread? I think it might need to be stitched.”
He swatted at her as she attempted to probe at the cut again. “It needs to be left alone.”
“It’s bleeding worse now, Captain. Please, let me stitch it.”
He sighed softly, swearing just beneath his breath. “Very well. Mr. Barnett shouldn’t give you any difficulty, but are you certain you can do it?”
She smiled, lowering her hand. “When one’s father owns a sugar plantation, being able to sew small wounds is almost an everyday need. There’s always someone getting hurt.”
“And you did this?”
“It sometimes took hours to fetch the surgeon when someone was hurt, so I had to learn to help take care of injured workers. While I’m there, shall I see if he has a bottle of whiskey to spare? You might need it.”
He grinned. “It wouldn’t be turned away.”
That grin did something to her, made her stomach jump in a way it hadn’t in a long time. She ducked her head as a blush warmed her cheeks, and hurried to find both the needle and thread, and the spare bottle of whiskey.
Chapter Nine
If ever James needed a drink, it was now. He shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable, but the stinging in his cheek was worse now. Just how big was that damn cut? Judging by the burn, half his cheek must’ve been laid open to the bone. An icy sweat prickled between his shoulder blades as he stared down at the needle resting so innocuously on the table. The sunlight slitting in through the window behind him hit it in such a way as to make it gleam like silver.
He clenched his hands into fists as they threatened to tremble and his gut threatened to spill all over the floor. What took Rebecca so long? Finding spirits on board his ship was not a difficult task. Hell, he’d take being hit over the head with something if it meant he’d remain unconscious while she sewed him up.
Finally, the door opened and Rebecca came in, a blessed bottle clutched in one hand. “Mr. Morris had the fullest bottle on board,” she explained, pressing it into his hand. “No one would even think of touching what’s in the hold.”
“They know better.” The bottle was about half-full, but still far too light for his liking. At least holding it kept his hands from betraying him. He wasn’t about to let her see him behaving like some sort of coward, afraid of a few stitches.
She settled across from him, wadding up a length of linen to dip in the bowl of water sitting near the needle and thread. He shifted again. Damn uncomfortable chair. When they reached New Jersey, he was tossing it in the bay.
“Captain McKenzie? Are you all right? You look a bit — ah — pale.”
“I’m fine.” He forced himself to not look at the damned needle but to concentrate on her instead. “Let’s just do this, shall we?”
“Very well.”
“Ah!” Scorching pain exploded through his cheek as she pressed the cloth to it, and he jerked back. Damn it. How was he going to get through having it sewn, if he became such a blatherskite at the slightest touch against it?
He’d had stitches before, but the last time, he was fortunate enough to have had a bit of laudanum on hand. Once that was in his system, he didn’t give a damn if the surgeon drilled holes in his head, never mind sewing up a tiny flap of skin.
Why the devil hadn’t he insisted Mr. Morris keep laudanum on hand? His head pounded as his gaze slid back to the needle and thread. In but a few minutes, that needle would pierce his skin, would slip through it, drawing the thread along behind —
His jaw clenched as bile rose in his throat. His fingers tightened about the bottle’s neck, and with his free hand, he jerked the cork free, muttering, “Son on a bitch…”
Her smile was too toothsome to be real. “Captain?”
“Just. Sew.” He twisted away from her for a much-needed pull of brandy. The liquor burned a path down his throat and hit his belly with a burst of welcomed fire.
But she made no move for the needle. Lowering the bottle, he asked, “What’s the matter?”
She didn’t reply, but studied his cheek with such intensity, he was sure the burn he felt now had nothing to do with the cut and everything to do with her stare. Her eyes narrowed and then opened wide. Perhaps it was the brandy on his empty stomach, but it brought a laugh to his lips, and he clenched his jaw even tighter to hold it back.
Her demeanor was so calm, so steady, that it took away the edge of his apprehension. No confusion clouded her eyes, nor did she hesitate as she gently probed the wound. She wasn’t frightened or queasy, but was very calm and steady. She’d done this before.
“Hmmm…” She sat back, and his heart thudded dully against his ribs as he waited for her to thread the needle. His gut still bubbled, but he wasn’t so sure he’d be sick now.
But still she didn’t reach for either needle or thread. “I don’t think it needs to be sewn. It doesn’t look as deep as I originally thought.”
He hoped his relief didn’t show as strongly on his face as it surged through him. “Is that so?”
She nodded, clapping her hands against her lap. “No, I don’t think it needs so much as one stitch.”
The icy sweat dotting his back dried. “You don’t need to look so disappointed, Mrs. McKenzie.” He leaned back in his chair.
“Oh, I have to confess to being just a bit disappointed,” she admitted without a hint of sheepishness. “I’m rather good at sewing. Quite good, actually. My scars are almost works of art.”
“Your scars are works of — ” This time he couldn’t hold back his laughter. “Art? Tell me, do you throw back a few drinks before, during, or after you sew a man up?”
Her brows drew low. “Are you mocking me?”
“Oh, certainly. I’ve never heard anyone brag about their stitching skills, or describe the scars they inflict as a work of art.”
A rosy flush swept up her face toward her hairline. “Very well, perhaps they weren’t quite works of art. But I did do a fine job.”
He controlled the last of his chuckles. She didn’t smile, and her flush deepened, suggesting her feelings might be a bit tender at being teased. “I’m sure you did, Rebecca, and I’m sure many men are grateful to have had you tend to their wounds.”
She smiled. “I think they were, indeed.”
She got the last laugh by dabbing at his cheek again. Her color returned to normal. “You’ll probably be even more bruised, come morning.”
As she spoke, she leaned closer. Her dabs became gentler. “You do have a way with people, Captain. Do you know that?”
Her eyes softened, the irises an even brighter shade of blue now. At the first throb of pain poking behind his eyes, he sighed. “James.”
She sat back, her forehead creased. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, James. I’d prefer it if you used that instead. I told you, I don’t like the formality and frankly, I’m tired of hearing the word ‘Captain.’”
“I don’t know that I’m comfortable with that.” She sat back, dropping the cloth into the bowl. “Do you really think Captain Weaver would have run me through?”
James forgot about the pain in his head as his gaze fell on the smudge of dried blood in the hollow of her throat, a memento left behind by Weaver’s blade. His gut tightened. He should have hit Weaver again. And harder. “I wasn’t about to take the chance and find out.”
“I don’t believe I thanked you, did I?” She clasped her hands, resting them in her lap. “You are fortunate he only hit you with his hand. I don’t think he found your remark about the king at all amusing.”
“He didn’t seem to, no. But then again, I didn’t think he would. And there’s no need to thank me.” He shrugged and poked at the gash in his cheek again. Bad idea. A sharp sting coursed through his entire body, even after he pulled his hand away from his face. Poking at it was probably not a wise idea. Unless of course, he wanted to have it sewn up. “I don’t feel so fortunate. I’ve got one hell of a headache.”
She swatted at his hand. “Stop touching it and perhaps it won’t hurt quite so much.”
“It’s split open, Rebecca. It’s going to hurt whether I touch it or not.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “You are like a child, Captain McKenzie. Do you know that?”
With that, she leaned in and something brushed his cheek. Her lips. Soft. Dewy. No heavier than a moth’s wings, but the heat that shot through him told him no moth brushed his face. Every sinew in his body tightened, and his arms acted of their own accord. Before his brain could register what his body was doing, he caught her around the waist and pulled her hard against him.
She yielded against him, her body warm and soft to stoke the fire further. He brushed her lips with his, just barely touched them, but it was like putting flint to steel to urge him on. Perhaps it was the softness of her lips, or the warmth of her breath against him. He didn’t know — didn’t care. It spurred him on, and she mewled as he caught her lips in a kiss.
He hadn’t imagined the dewiness of her lips. They curved to his, yielded the same way her body did, parted at the slightest pressure. She was wickedly sweet, her mouth warm and welcoming. He curved a hand against her face, his fingers splayed over her smooth cheek, stretching into the soft nest of her hair. Everything about her was soft, from the lips moving against his, to her fingertips now grazing the nape of his neck.
His pulse thundered through him, his blood a rush in his ears as the firm mounds of her breasts pressed squarely into his chest. God, he wanted her, wanted her with as much fury as he had the night of the Sheratons’ masquerade. Quite possibly more, even. Rebecca Alex — McKenzie was a sensual woman, and he sure as hell wasn’t immune to it.
She didn’t resist him as he rose from the chair to press her onto her back into the soft mattress, and he bit back a groan as her tongue thrust into his mouth. The caress shot through him, and his body responded swiftly and sharply.
Her firm breasts pressed harder against him. God, how he wanted to curve his hands against them, to feel their weight, feel her nipples bead beneath his tongue.
Did he dare?
Damn straight he did.
His fingertips grazed along the slope of her neck. When she responded by tightening her hand against his nape, and goaded on by the lower half of his body, James let his hand slide over the rise of her breast. The linen was smooth, and she sucked in a sharp breath as his thumb brushed her nipple. The nub poked through the fabric as he circled it slowly.
It was the perfect size and shape for his hand, and his palm practically tingled at the weight of the small mound. A heaviness settled in his groin, one that had him maneuvering his hips, trying to ease them between her thighs, which was no easy feat, given the amount of fabric between them. But he had to do it, had to do something to ease that growing ache and swelling pressure that made his breeches too tight and relief necessary. He had to quell the heat filling him, to soothe the desire smoking the blood burning through his veins.
Her eyes snapped open as he managed to shift enough layers to make contact with her, and he groaned as she settled perfectly against him. She was breathless, her “Captain McKenzie?” an airy whisper.
“Oh, now is when you should definitely be calling me James, sweetheart.” He flicked his forefinger up to the edging of her low-cut bodice and traced a slow path along the warm, silken inner curve of her left breast. He wanted to work it free, to tug her breast from its confines and draw it deep into his mouth. He carried the memory of her, tight and hot around him, and it made him want her with a fury. His body ached with the need to be inside her, a need he managed to ignore until now. Right now, it didn’t matter that she was there against both of their wills. It didn’t matter all why she was there with him. He wanted her, and that was all that mattered.
Muslin crinkled as he slid a hand beneath her voluminous skirts, along the smooth curve of her inner thigh. He crept a bit higher still, and smiled. Coarse, curly hair rose up over her mound between her thighs. The curls were damp, soft, easy to part. She shivered against him with each stroke, and he bit back a moan as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth. Nothing nearly as arousing as a woman in the throes of passion. His breeches felt as if they might rip apart.
“Mmmm…” Rebecca’s airy sigh rose to tickle his ears, and he bit back another groan at the sensual pleasure in her voice. He forced his heavy-lidded eyes to open, to gaze down at her. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. The rosy flush of her cheeks gave her a wanton appearance. Wanton. Sensual. Erotic.
Beautiful.
Sweet Jesus, he just wanted to be inside her, just wanted to feel her tight about him. Wanted to see her astride him as they made love. How much of her perfect, ladylike demeanor would disappear once her legs were wrapped about his waist? Would she be the same temptress she’d been the night of the masquerade ball? Would she arch against him and claw at his back? Would she cry out his name as she throbbed all around him? He certainly hoped so. She was every bit the seductress that night, and his body hummed with the need to find her again.
“Rebecca,” he whispered as her fingers, shy and curious, snagged in the waist of his breeches. Just the brush of her fingertips against his flesh was enough to sear him. The backs of her fingers swept across his lower belly, and there wasn’t a hint of shyness in her as she tugged at the falls. And not a moment too soon, as his erection tested the strength of the fabric of his breeches.
Her hand closed about him, and pleasure threatened to rip him in half. It was all he could do to hold back his groan, and even that became impossible when she arched her back to press those perfect breasts into his chest.
God, he wanted to taste her, wanted to taste every inch of her from top to bottom. It drove him mad, because he didn’t want to want her. He didn’t want to desire her. He was trapped with her, quite possibly for the remainder of his life, and that infuriated him. But at the same time, he couldn’t stop thinking about their one night of passion, couldn’t stop wanting another night such as that one.
Couldn’t stop wanting her.
Rebecca peeled her mouth from his, gasping for breath as she said, “Captain… wait…”
Wait? Every muscle, every fiber in his body screamed at him to do just the opposite even as he lifted his head to groan, “Wait?”
“Captain?” Daniel Tims’s voice came from the far side of the door, followed by a solid rap on the wood.
Damn it!
“Captain?” Tims knocked again.
Go. Away. James let his forehead come to rest on Rebecca’s warm breast, fighting to catch his breath. To his surprise, her fingers slid through his hair, over his left ear, and the unexpected caress sent a chill down along his spine. Hopefully, he didn’t sound as out of breath to Tims as he growled, “What is it?”
“The Caravan has moved on without further incident.”
Go to hell. The words danced on the tip of James’s tongue. But before he could blast his first mate, Rebecca eased from his lap, her cheeks bright pink and her hands nervously sweeping down to press her skirts back into place, then up to her bodice to reposition everything. Her lips, red and swollen from his kisses, teased him, made it more difficult not to scream at Tims.
Struggling to control both his temper and his lust, James glared at the door. Damn it. Talk about terrible timing.
With a muted curse, he rose from his chair. His shirt hung free of his breeches, which were still open and just resting on his hips. Of course, one couldn’t possible see his other discomfort, the one that went hand in hand with an aroused man and a rude interruption.
“Captain?”
“I’m coming!” James snapped, wincing as he tried to right himself. From the corner of one eye, he saw Rebecca’s eyes widening, the flush in her cheeks deepening further. She knew what all of his pushing and prodding meant, despite her innocent façade.
Finally, when he could fasten the bloody breeches without too much discomfort, he did. Rebecca turned away, but not before her soft chuckle reached his ears.
“Do you have to go?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, as if she was afraid that otherwise she’d grab him again.
