The Pleasure of His Bed. Donna Grant

with him!

      Raucous laughter made her duck behind a lamppost: the last thing she needed was to be knocked into the water by a drunken sailor. As Sofia squinted into the shadows of the nearest ship, however, she spied familiar dark hair and heard an all-too-alluring voice.

      “We’ll make our fortunes, partner! Havisham’s loaded his ship to the gills, with the idea that he—and we—are to profit hugely from this voyage!” Captain Delacroix wore a wicked grin in the flickering lantern light, and the man to whom he spoke laughed loudly again.

      “It’s time for a rendezvous with Teach, then. Shall we set our course for America, by way of New Providence?”

      This fellow wasn’t as tall as Delacroix, but his smile and catlike grace showed the same lust for life she’d felt in Damon. This must be the Morgan O’Roark he’d mentioned to Lord Havisham…a man she’d do well to watch—and not just because he was every bit as dashing and handsome as Delacroix.

      “That’s what we’ll do, yes!” Damon replied. “I hope you got your fill of good food and female company tonight, as we’ll be a long time without such luxuries.”

      “Two of ’em at once—and they provided the meal and the bottle!” O’Roark crowed. “I can’t imagine you fared as well at Havisham’s unless his wife availed herself?”

      “Ha! Lady Constance is almost as enticing as her ship’s wooden figurehead. But I did take my pleasure with a vixen serving girl who gave the name Blackbeard a whole new meaning!”

      “Did she, now? You must fill me in over our next drink!”

      Delacroix glanced around the piers, grinning. “I recall a bottle of fine brandy in your cabin, Morgan. Shall we toast our success before those simpering Havisham girls arrive? You’ll be damn glad they’re sailing with Ned Cavendish instead of on board the Odalisque.”

      “Let’s drink to Blackbeard, then! Wherever he—or she!—may be found!”

      You do that, gentlemen. Sofia watched the two laughing captains saunter along the boardwalk and then followed them in the shadows of the ships. When they started up a gangplank, she craned her neck to read the vessel’s name. If this was O’Roark’s ship, the Odalisque, then Captain Delacroix’s vessel, the Courtesan, had to be nearby!

      Sure enough, the Lady Constance swayed gently in the next slip, and when Sofia saw the bold red and black lettering on the Courtesan, she tucked her bundle higher beneath her arm. Her first impulse was to duck her head and dodge any questions from the bustling crew—but, then, they needed to know who she was! Who they were dealing with!

      “Ahoy there, miss! Can’t came aboard this ship, on account of—”

      Sofia arched an eyebrow at the grizzled old sailor and then sidestepped the tobacco juice he spat. “I’m inspecting, on behalf of Lord Havisham himself!” she announced. “I’m to see that all is clean and proper aboard the two ships escorting his daughters to America—to report any irregularities before you set sail! And what might your name be, sir?”

      “Never you mind,” he muttered. He let fly with another stream of muck, deciding if he believed her. “How ’bout you carry on with your job, and I’ll do mine, eh?”

      “A wise choice. As you were, sir.” Sofia watched him walk away with the uneven limp and the thunk…ka-thunk of his peg leg. Then she strolled purposefully toward the stern. Unless Delacroix’s ship was different from the Havisham vessel, the captain’s quarters were beneath the quarterdeck.

      And as she approached, Sofia could hardly believe her luck! Not a soul was in sight! Sailors’ voices echoed in the hold below, but all hands on the deck were busy loading near the bow.

      Chuckling, Sofia padded down the steps and opened the nearest door. The furnishings shone with promise in the first light of dawn that peeked through the small, high windows. The captain’s bed looked to be carved of mahogany and was far larger than any she’d ever slept in.

      “Oh, this will do nicely!” Sofia closed the door—locked it, for good measure. Then she imagined how best to greet Damon Delacroix when he finally found her.

      4

      Damon bounded down the stairs toward his quarters and a much needed drink. Hours behind schedule they were, all because that feisty abigail’s absence had thrown the household into turmoil. Another suitable chaperone had been found—and then Daphne and Beatrix had clung to their mother as if certain death awaited them aboard the Lady Constance. Such weeping, wailing, and carrying on like he’d never seen!

      But when he’d suggested to Lady Havisham that they must be sailing while the tide was in their favor, her glare would’ve felled a lesser man—as if he had arranged her daughters’ marriages in faraway America. As if he were separating her from her two oldest girls and had the audacity to keep a schedule they’d set weeks ago.

      Women! He was happy to leave Lady Havisham and her last-minute instructions behind, bound for the open sea. With the nobleman’s ship sailing between his Courtesan and O’Roark’s Odalisque at last, some semblance of order had returned.

      He twisted his doorknob and then banged into the door. “What the—? Why in God’s name is—?”

      He turned the knob again—shoved the door with his shoulder—but nothing moved! He never locked his quarters! Hired only trustworthy sailors, so he had no need to carry a key.

      Damon stood at his door dumbfounded, growing angrier by the second. The only thing aboard the Courtesan he ever locked was the strong box in which they kept the valuables after plundering a prize—and this only to prevent accusations of petty thievery from running amok, come time to divvy up the spoils.

      Scowling, he peered through the keyhole. Nothing amiss in his main room, far as he could see…so he’d have to tell Jonas Comstock his door needed unlocking. Jonas had cooked aboard the Courtesan since she’d been built: if any man knew the whereabouts of important keys, it was the gimpy old salt who ran the galley and kept the rum kegs locked up.

      Muttering, Delacroix took the stairs two at a time. His mood didn’t improve when Comstock quizzed him about where the deuce he’d put his own key and why the hell his door would be locked anyway. They then resurrected the damn key from a drawer of odd cooking utensils, wasting yet another half hour in the process.

      When he returned to his quarters, his door stood ajar.

      Damon kicked the damn thing and entered. Stood in the center of his main room, looking for reasons this whole damn day had gone wrong.

      “What the hell’s happening here?” he demanded aloud.

      He couldn’t find a thing out of place. His navigational instruments lay on his square table where he’d left them. His two baroque chairs sat on the Ottoman rug facing the matching settee—ornately carved pieces his sailors teased him about, but it gave the place a homier feel. This was his home, after all, and because he’d selected every book and tankard and tapestry himself, he thrummed with the sense that all was not right.

      “I’m drawing my sword, dammit!” he warned, looking toward the half wall that separated his bed from the main room. “You’ve no place to hide, so you might as well—”

      “I’ve seen your sword, captain, and you don’t scare me one bit! Bring it on!”

      Damon’s jaw dropped. What was a woman doing in his bedroom? Aboard his ship? Where had he heard her voice?

      And why was his cock already high and hard?

      “You!” He gripped the edge of the low wall to keep from rushing at her in his frustration. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one day by disappearing from your post?”

      The raven-haired maid from last night lay naked against his headboard, swaddled amongst his pillows and sheets like a cat settled in for a nap—as if she belonged there! “Come, come, now, captain,” she crooned, slyly raising