Christina turned for the door. The captain’s trunk, tucked inconspicuously in the corner, drew her eye. Staying here had its merits. After all, if he’d searched her valise, that gave her a right to search his baggage as well.
Without pause, she stomped to the trunk and grabbed the gleaming black lid. Just what would he keep in his chest? Weapons? Skulls? Sunken treasure?
An anxious whirl wound about her stomach as she lifted the lid, expecting the worst. Nothing in her imagination had prepared her for the captain’s simplicity.
Bolts of silks and fine linen lay on top in a rainbow of color. With a puzzled frown, Christina set them on the floor. Below the cloth, she found an extra pair of his boots and black leather gloves. She reached again into the trunk, digging deeper. This time, her fingers grasped the spine of a book.
A book? Who taught notorious privateers how to read?
With a scowl, she pulled the tome free from the trunk. Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare, it read. The Black Dragon reading classics? And why something so tragically romantic? She would hardly call him the sentimental type.
-70-
The Lady and the Dragon
She flipped open the hard red cover. Inside, the flowery, faded script of a woman’s hand caught her gaze. To my beloved Ryan, read this tale and weep, yet know our love burns too bright to end in sadness. Forever, Chantal.
With numb fingers, Christina closed the book and set it back in the trunk.
His name was Ryan. It fit him, she supposed, though the sound was somewhat softer than the man himself.
And his love was a woman named Chantal.
The thought rose like an ache inside, even as denial surged hard in her belly. Maybe Chantal was merely the captain’s sister. She doubted it. The man would hardly keep the book with him if he did not treasure the tome.
Chantal. The name conjured up images of an exotic French girl with dark hair and cat-like ebony eyes. Christina sighed, irritated by an irrational surge of jealousy.
Or what if, dear God, Chantal was his wife?
She hardly cared. He was the worst sort of barbarian. Completely arrogant.
She hoped he did have a lover.
Even as she thought the words, her shoulders sagged. True, he was a tyrant, and she should be happy he had a woman in his life.
She wasn’t.
Thrusting her feelings aside, she rose and placed the items back in the trunk. She would not cry; there was no reason. The brute of a captain had a love, something she had never wanted. Independence was much more fascinating.
But the memory of the Black Dragon’s lips—Ryan’s lips—lingered. Closing her eyes, she relived the burn of his kiss. His possession of her mouth had felt so complete, so full of desire. Now she wondered if he’d been imagining Chantal while she’d been melting like butter in the summer sun.
After shoving the last of the material back into the trunk, she shut the lid and whirled for the door. Never mind the Black Dragon, or Ryan, and Chantal, his wife or mistress or whatever. She had some fresh air to breathe and her autonomy to maintain.
-71-
Shelley Bradley
She certainly hadn’t come on board to be ordered about like a child—or lose her heart.
* * *
Christina awoke in the infirmary with a cramp in her neck and a damp rag dangling from her limp fingers. The wick on the lantern burned low, and she could barely make out Pauly’s sleeping form. Rising with a stretch, she wondered how many hours she’d slept here. The ache in her back told her more than a few.
Quietly, Christina set the rag at the corner of Pauly’s bed. She wanted to ask him how he felt, but didn’t dare wake him after his painfully sleepless evening.
She crept to the door and exited. After ascending several ladders, Christina couldn’t resist a peek at the night sky.
A breeze warmer than any she’d known on England’s shores blew against her skin in a damp caress. She inhaled the scents of salt and wood and tang in the air.
Her mood was a restless one. Pauly would soon recover, so that no longer upset her. More importantly, she’d truly escaped Grandfather. And she had no illusions about her standing with the ton. If he ever found her and dragged her back to London, she would be a ruined woman no man of consequence would wed. No one would have to know that, other than a few kisses, she remained as virtuous as the day she’d been born. Grandfather certainly wouldn’t stoop to marrying her to a commoner. He would have to let her live her life peacefully with Aunt Mary. She should be pleased.
Christina made her way to a corner of the deck and leaned against its rail, lulled by the gentle swish of the white-capped water below and crisp whip of the wind above. Stars twinkled in a display more brilliant than any chandelier.
She felt awed by the serenity of nature, privileged to be wandering about its realm.
-72-
The Lady and the Dragon
The wrinkle in her happiness could only be attributed to the captain. Why, given his autocratic ways, did she have a hard time driving him from her thoughts?
His kisses lingered in her memory. It was puzzling, really. To be so…curious about a man whose face she had never seen. He could be horribly deformed. But given the bronzed flesh rippling all over his body with silent power and those fathomless dark eyes that could make her shiver with just a glance, she didn’t think so.
Even more odd, for a man of such vicious reputation, he had not harmed her. Not really. The hold had been unpleasant in the extreme, and her banishment there still infuriated her. Her duties in the mess hall were no picnic. But she was alive. He had not whipped or raped her. He’d made no mention of walking the plank or sharing her with his crew, only manning a stove. While she’d never imagined she would do anything as menial as cooking, the chore had hurt only her pride—and the men’s stomachs.
“You’re supposed to be in your cabin,” a familiar voice rang from behind her, ripe with displeasure.
She refused to turn his way. “I shouldn’t think a moment of air is too much to ask.”
He stepped up beside her and directed his next words to her profile. “You’re not safe on this ship alone. My men are well trained, but men, just the same.”
Christina shot him a sidelong glare. “Believe what you may, I can look after myself. I’m hardly a wilting flower.”
His laughter echoed in the air, rich and deep. “A wilting flower is the very last description I would give of you.”
“How would you describe me,” she paused, glancing askance for his expression, “Ryan?”
His laughter ebbed. His smile died, replaced by taut fury darkening his eyes beneath his mask. “What did you call me?”
Christina checked the urge to retreat a step. “Ryan. Is that not your name?”
“Searching my belongings, I see.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her closer.
-73-
Shelley Bradley
Christina tried to concentrate on the feel of rough fingers biting into her arm. The view of his golden flesh flexing beneath his half-buttoned shirt distracted her.
She whispered, “You searched mine.”
“If you were trying to find evidence to hang me with, sorry to disappoint you. Ryan is not my name,” he bit out.
“Then Chantal isn’t—” She broke off in mortification, unable to believe she’d almost asked the Black Dragon about his private affairs.
“My wife? My lover? No. I don’t have either.” He paused, gaze probing her with a heat far from comfortable. “Why ask?”
“I was merely curious about…” You. But saying it aloud was too much of an admission. “About the kind of man who becomes a pirate.”
“Privateer,” he bit out. “I don’t steal.”
There was a distinction between the two? She smiled and wriggled her arm free. The captain released it, wearing a scowl.