The Pleasure of His Bed. Donna Grant

still. Anything she said or did fueled his need to possess her. To overpower her.

      “If you won’t agree to my generous offer, I’ll have no recourse but to report this indiscretion to the captain,” he whispered. His kiss was hard and greedy and fast. “You were wandering the deck like a wanton, and I nobly offered to protect you—your honor—and provide for your future. Only an ungrateful little bitch would turn me away.”

      Sofia held his gaze, assessing her options. She was damned if she gave in to Thomas and damned if she didn’t: he was second in command to the captain. Quentin Thomas was in charge of steering the ship, and he had authority over all matters of deportment aboard the Courtesan—matters of life and death, in cases of extreme violations of the rules.

      Rules he applies to everyone but himself.

      The wind blew her hair in her face—which meant either the ship or the wind had changed directions, didn’t it? And where were the sailors who should be clambering up the ropes to the yardarms, to position the huge sails? If she could bide her time, surely someone would interrupt this distasteful discussion, which smacked of blackmail.

      “On the contrary, Mr. Thomas,” she replied in a purposeful purr, “I find your offer generous and attractive—especially because I must consider the welfare of someone other than myself. You see, my mother is aboard the Lady Constance. I was waving to her when you found me here, and—”

      The quartermaster’s laugh was edged with sarcasm. “What sort of fool do you take me for? I didn’t become the captain’s lieutenant by believing every far-fetched story a pretty wench fed me, so—” He yanked her skirt to her knees. “What’ll it be, Miss Martine? If you need more time to decide, perhaps the rats and roaches in the hold can assist with your decision.”

      10

      Damon awakened with a start. His dream of Sofia had gone awry when a faceless stranger had stepped from the mists to lure her away from him. And when he’d tried to rise up against the intruder, he couldn’t move!

      “What the—?” Pain shot through his wrist when he tried to roll over, and then his knee-jerk reaction nearly broke his damn foot!

      He groaned. He’d been so concerned about rescuing Sofia from the stranger in his dream, yet she’d chained him to the bed—with his own irons! The minx must’ve hidden the manacles before dinner…and while her trickery put him at a disadvantage, he was chuckling. She’d planned this little slave game—had worn him out last night to show him who really had control of their arrangement, which had grown even more sexually charged since he’d freed her from these chains.

      He admired her for that. Sofia Martine was anything but boring.

      But how the hell was he supposed to run his ship? The gray light at his portholes announced an overcast dawn and a day aboard the Courtesan that had started without him.

      “Sofia? If you’re behind me laughing—”

      But only the ticking of his desk clock broke the silence in his quarters. Last night’s brandy soured his mouth. How long had she been gone?

      What sort of trouble is she causing? Even if it’s unintentional?

      “Somebody? Anybody!” he cried hoarsely. “Ahoy, sailors! Your captain needs—”

      But did he really want his men to find him this way? His eye patch had slipped to the pillow, and his bandanna felt askew on his rumpled hair—reminders of the costuming Sofia had coaxed him into. His limbs felt heavy from being driven by her insatiable wanting, her unspoken challenge to keep up with her need. Again and again.

      Surely someone would notice his absence. Surely Quentin would come along soon, and by now Sofia would be busy in the kitchen under Comstock’s watchful eye.

      He should relax. No sense in thrashing about, possibly reopening the wound on his face. His men were perfectly capable of navigating and carrying out their duties until he appeared.

      Yet as the minutes ticked by, marked by the four-note chiming of his clock at the quarter hour, Damon grew uneasy. Why did his gut tell him something was terribly amiss—just as in that dream in which he couldn’t identify the man who’d seduced Sofia?

      More important, where’s the key to these handcuffs?

      A secretive knocking interrupted his racing thoughts. At the quiet creaking of his door, Damon cleared his throat loudly. “Yes? How may I help you?” he demanded, hoping he sounded fit and ready to come around the room divider to greet his visitor.

      “Captain, sir? I had a sneakin’ suspicion—” Thunk…ka-thunk…

      Damon closed his eyes, awaiting his cook’s reaction. Better Jonas Comstock than some of his other men, but he could predict what the crotchety old salt would lecture him about.

      “Well, now. Why’m I not surprised to find you ‘indisposed,’ captain? Things ain’t been goin’ right ever since that hoyden hid herself here,” he remarked gruffly. “Gives credence to that superstition about females bein’ unlucky on board.”

      Jonas approached the side of the bed so he could fully take in Damon’s predicament and speak to his face rather than to his bare backside. He pursed his weathered lips and glanced around, presumably for the key.

      Delacroix coughed awkwardly. “This was a little game Sophia—only a joke she played after—”

      “I’d find it a lot funnier if you was in plain sight and Quentin Thomas was at the wheel, sir.” Comstock fished in his pants pocket and then flicked open his knife. “Miss Martine’s leadin’ you both around by the…leg, captain. And which one do you s’pose bribed the crew to steer clear of starboard deck? Your quartermaster or your whore?”

      As the cuff at his wrist popped open, Damon scowled. “Why? What’s going on?”

      Comstock lifted a shoulder in a disapproving shrug. Thunk…ka-thunk. He hobbled to the foot of the bed to slip the point of his knife into the keyhole of the leg iron. “Heard her voice on the deck, so’s I stepped out to see what was keepin’ ’er—and it was Quentin. Gettin’ real…friendly with her, he was.”

      “How do you mean, friendly?” Damon rolled into sitting position, rubbing his sore wrist. “Where the hell were the men? Don’t they feel how the wind’s shifted? If a storm’s blowing in and—”

      Another cryptic shrug. A raised eyebrow furrowed Jonas’s old forehead. “Sounded like some sort o’ proposition he was makin’ her—”

      “That bastard!” Delacroix hopped from the bed and searched for his pants, which Sophia had apparently hidden under his bed as another part of her joke.

      “And from the look on her face, she weren’t turnin’ him down, neither. The woman’s no good, I tell ya. New Providence ain’t but a day or two away, and she needs to be offa this ship, sir,” he insisted. “If ya don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

      Oh, he minded, but the cook would criticize him anyway. Damon yanked the bandanna from his head and stepped into his pants. “Get back to the deck, Jonas. But not a word about how you found me—or turned me loose. Understand?”

      “Aye, sir.”

      “Roust the men back to their posts—including Mr. Thomas,” he added pointedly. “I’ll make my appearance after I’ve assessed the situation.”

      As Damon watched the cook adjust to the marked rolling of the ship, his thoughts swirled like the upcoming storm. What should he believe—and whom? Comstock gloried in reporting doom and gloom—and dirt. Worse than a gossipy old crone, Jonas was, when it came to tattling.

      Damon glanced at the foggy shaving mirror, running a finger lightly over the line of his stitches. If Quentin Thomas had taken liberties with Sofia, the quartermaster would suffer more bodily harm than a needle could mend.

      Damon clenched his fists. It required the vote of the