The Pleasure of His Bed. Donna Grant

her chained stance suggested her despondent mood—but also to keep the Lady Constance in sight. At this hour, before dawn broke fully, she liked to think about what her mother would be doing. Magdalena Martine had served the Havisham family since before their daughters were born, had devoted her best years to keeping their household in order.

      Had Mama convinced Daphne to quit sniveling? Had she caught Beatrix kissing a sailor yet?

      Is she angry because I disrupted her life without a moment’s notice? And that my chasing after Damon Delacroix has uprooted her forever?

      Sofia sighed wistfully. “Do you ever miss your mother, captain?”

      He looked up from lathering his face. In the flickering light from his oil lamp, the masculine shadow along his jaw called to her…such an alluring contrast between the white froth and that dark male stubble. As she recalled how his chin had chafed her when he’d put his head between her legs last night, his eyes blazed with blue fire.

      “My mother’s not the type a man misses.” He laid his brush aside to pick up his straight razor. “She nagged at my father until he left us when I was ten. Had a knack for wearing everyone out with her chiding and criticism, unfortunately.”

      “That’s why you left home for the sea?” she asked in a faraway voice. “I’ve always shared a wonderful love with Mama, even though I was born into service. She knows her place—her work—and she taught me to take pride in it, too.”

      “She certainly passed along her talent for cooking.” He pulled his face taut to shave around one side of his nose. “You greatly improved Comstock’s stew last night, Sofia, and I appreciate your demanding those spices. I admire a woman who insists on change that benefits the common good.”

      Sofia gazed across the room at him. Naked, half crouched to peer into his small shaving mirror, Damon Delacroix looked tigerlike and wiry. Predatory and very strong.

      “Thank you. Mr. Comstock doesn’t see things that way.”

      “Jonas is green. The entire crew adores you, and he can’t compete.”

      The razor sang an enticing song as he cleared his face…revealed fresh, swarthy skin Sofia’s fingers longed to stroke. She sighed and gazed out the window toward the Lady Constance again. “He claims my extravagance will cost us later on. Says we’ll run short of food halfway across the Atlantic.”

      “He should let the quartermaster—and me—worry about that.” Delacroix quirked an eyebrow. “Besides, it sounds like the perfect reason to veer south so we’ll reach a port sooner.”

      What did he mean by that? Was he ready to sell her, even though her lovemaking drove him wild? Even though he enjoyed her cooking and a companionship that went beyond her sexual favors?

      It wouldn’t be good strategy to ask, so she changed the subject. “My mother filled in for me as the girls’ abigail without having any choice,” she said softly. “I’m feeling guilty even though I’ve always dreamed of a new life in America—and now she can join me. She’s all I have, so I didn’t really want to leave her behind at Lady Havisham’s say-so.”

      Sofia glanced sideways to catch his reaction, but Damon was gazing into his small glass, intent on finishing his shave. He looked corded and strong, his muscles tensed to hold himself absolutely still as he focused on his poor excuse for a mirror.

      “Know what else I’ve always dreamed of?” she ventured softly.

      “Mmm?” He held his nose to the other side to scrape his cheek with short, quick strokes.

      “If I ever get out of these irons,” Sofia said dreamily, “I’ll wrap my legs and arms around you when we’re…fucking, Damon. I’ll squeeze your ass between my knees and—”

      “Dammit to—bloody hell that hurt!”

      A red rivulet of blood seeped between his fingers, and Sofia nearly fell over her leg chains when she scrambled to help him. “Press against the wound! We must find—” She grabbed the bottle of brandy on his desk to soak a corner of his towel with the liquor. “Hold this against it while I—”

      “This is your fault, dammit! Talking about wrapping your legs around—”

      “I didn’t mean to—”

      “Yes, you did!” He glowered at her, clamping his hand around hers as she pressed the wet, pungent towel to his cheek. “And now you’re wasting my best brandy—”

      “We must cleanse the wound to prevent—”

      “—and you lured me into this! Timed your brazen remark about legs and fucking for when I’d be—”

      Sofia’s mouth fell open. “Damon, I—surely you can’t believe I’d deliberately hurt you! I’d have escaped you days ago if I hated you that badly!”

      His crystalline eyes widened, mere inches from hers, but his anger still bubbled beneath his flushed face.

      Or was that fear she saw? Was he afraid of the powerful attraction between them—so attuned to her that in his imagination, he’d followed where her naughty thoughts led? And then he’d shown his anger rather than any sign he cared for her.

      When she finally dropped his gaze, Sofia gasped and grabbed the dripping towel. “You’re badly cut, sir,” she murmured. “I’ll be needing a needle and—”

      “It’s not that serious! Not like I’ve never cut myself shaving or—”

      “Damon.”

      His mouth clapped shut. He pressed her hand harder against his cheek, cursing to himself. Sofia was helping him even though he’d spewed accusations at her—even though it was his own damn fault he’d lost his concentration at the mention of her lovely legs wrapped around him.

      When had any woman looked so concerned for his welfare? When had anyone fallen all over herself to come to his aid? Truth be told, the idea of being stitched up bothered him even more than how red and soggy the towel had become with his blood. And if his men saw his eyes swimming this way, like crazed fish, they’d know a secret he’d concealed for years.

      And Blackbeard, bastard that he was, would capitalize on this weakness. Not that he would mention that notorious pirate to Sofia in her present state.

      Her eyes took up half her face. The vein in her pale, slender neck throbbed, a grim reminder of his own lifeblood pulsing…precious moments passing as she awaited his answer. Sofia carefully took the razor from his hand and laid it on the wash stand.

      “Damon—Captain Delacroix,” she whispered. “If you’d rather I didn’t sew you up, I’ll summon whoever—”

      “No. I—” He blinked away the first wave of dizziness. “I was concerned that you’d not have the stomach—nor the steady hand—for—”

      “I stitched Lord Havisham’s leg after a nasty fox-hunting accident,” she replied quietly. “You didn’t notice him limping, did you? Now where will I find a needle and thread? And bandages? This is foolishness, and you know it.”

      He closed his eyes to savor the warmth in her voice…the tingle of strong, healing power in her hands, if he’d allow it to flow into him. His mother would be squawking about how stupid and easily distracted he was; how he deserved to bear the scars of his licentious thoughts.

      Thank God it was Sofia Martine tending him. Her leg chain scraped the floor as she stepped back, glancing around for what she needed.

      “The medicine chest is in my armoire,” he said with a sigh.

      “And the key to these irons? I can’t make tiny, invisible stitches with my wrists bound, Captain Delacroix.”

      So it was “Captain Delacroix” again? He swallowed back another wave of dizziness and the coppery tang of fear that invaded his mouth. Somehow her return to his formal title cut more deeply than his damn razor had.

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