“You want another, you pay for it, Silas,” the landlord declared.
With a grimace Silas dug into his pocket for a farthing. He placed it on the counter with the air of one donating his life’s blood.
The landlord scooped it up, then picked up the tankard and refilled it from the keg, filling one for himself at the same time. “Aye,” he said, wiping foam from his mouth after a long draft. “Reckon it is our friend. But it’ll take more than that young lordling”-he gestured contemptuously to the door from which Godfrey had left-“to outwit im!”
“You know what I think…” the customer said, staring fixedly at the bottles behind the counter. “You want to know what I think?”
“I might if you’d up and say it.”
“I think, George, that you’d do best to switch yer orders to our friend, ‘stead of that clothes ’orse.”
“Aye, mebbe,” the landlord replied. “But answer me this, Silas. Is it better fer a man to deal wi‘ a greedy fool, or wi’ a man as dangerous clever as our friend? That’s what I asks meself.”
“You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of our friend,” Silas agreed, nodding solemnly. “An‘ a man can always outwit a fool.”
“Aye, an‘ put the frighteners on ’im too. Can’t do that wi‘ our friend, I reckon.”
“No.” Silas shook his head vigorously. “An‘ any road, our friend ain’t in the smugglin’ business so much these days, is ‘e? Used to be there wasn’t a boat went over to France from the island wi’out ’is say-so, but he’s other fish to fry these days, I reckon.”
He gazed down into his tankard before pronouncing, “O‘ course, if’n a man wanted a cask of cognac an’ a morsel o‘ that Valenciennes lace fer ’is woman, our friend could get it fer ‘im, that’s fer sure. But ’tis not ‘is regular trade, like.” He looked up thoughtfully. “D’ye reckon our friend’s tried ’is hand at wreckin‘ an’ all? Pays better than smugglin‘.”
“Aye, could be, but there’s no tellin‘. Powerful close-mouthed, ’is men are,” George declared. He tapped the side of his nose and winked. “Howsomever, what d’ye wager it’s our friend what’s after that young lordling’s culling? He’s such a clever ‘un, it’d be like ’im to let someone else do the work fer ‘im.”
“Could be,” agreed Silas.
The two men drank to this consensus and lapsed into contemplative silence.
“Why don’t you go below now? You can barely keep your eyes open.” The pirate leaned back in his chair, a glass of cognac cupped in his hands, regarding Olivia with a slight smile.
Olivia stifled a yawn. It was true, she was very sleepy. The remains of dinner had been cleared away, and while Anthony sat savoring his cognac, she had been drifting in a half sleep to the music of the wind in the rigging and the motion of the ship on the gentle swell of the night sea.
“It’s such a perfect night,” she said, looking up at the sky. “You never see stars like this on land.”
“No, you don’t.”
“When will we get back to the island?”
“If the wind holds fair, we’ll sight land by noon tomorrow.”
“And will it hold fair?”
He shrugged and smiled. “That’s hard to say. The wind is a fickle mistress.” He called softly to the helmsman. “What do you think, Jethro? Will the wind hold fair for us?”
“Might drop towards dawn.”
“What am I to say at home?” Olivia cupped her chin on her elbow-propped hands. “How am I to explain things?”
“Why don’t we cross that bridge when we reach it?” Anthony leaned over and brushed the curve of her cheek with a fingertip. “Are you so anxious to break free of entrancement, Olivia?”
She shook her head. “No, but this is just a dream and I must wake up sometime.”
“Yes, you must. But not before noon tomorrow.”
“I suppose there wouldn’t be much point waking up yet, since I’m still kidnapped,” Olivia observed gravely.
“Precisely so… Go to bed now.”
Olivia pushed back her chair and rose reluctantly. “I would like to sleep under the stars.”
“You would be cold.”
“Even with blankets?”
“Even with blankets.”
Olivia continued to hesitate, looking at him as he sat at his ease swirling the cognac around the crystal. He returned her gaze, that smile deep in his eyes, and something else that she couldn’t read. It was a promise of some kind. She was aware of a quiver in her belly, a strange tightening in her thighs.
She turned to the steps leading down to the main deck. “Good night.”
But he didn’t return her farewell.
The cabin had been cleaned and tidied, the lantern above the bed lit, throwing a soft golden glow over the polished wood and the rich colors in the Turkey rugs. The windows had been closed and damask curtains drawn across them.
Olivia pulled back the curtains and flung open the windows again. It was too fresh and beautiful a night to shut out. She turned back to the cabin. There was clean linen on the bed; the covers were turned down invitingly. She fingered the emerald sash at her waist, then untied it, folded it carefully, and replaced it in the cupboard in the bulwark. She began to untie the ribbons at the neck of the nightshirt when her eye fell on the chessboard.
Anthony had set up another chess problem, she remembered now. She went over to look at it, twisting the silken ribbons around her fingers as she gazed down at the pieces in frowning concentration. It was definitely not as immediately solvable as the previous one.
A deep yawn took her by surprise, and Olivia lost interest in the problem. In the morning, when her mind was fresh, she’d solve it in a minute. A problem she couldn’t solve in a minute was what she was to sleep in. Her makeshift gown felt too much like a gown now to do double duty, and besides, she would need it in the morning.
She’d slept naked ever since she’d arrived on Wind Dancer, and Olivia, on reflection, could see no reason to do any different tonight. She pulled the nightshirt over her head, folded it as carefully as she had folded the sash, and put it away, then she climbed over the wooden sides and into the bed. The sheets were cool and crisp and the bed was wonderfully familiar.
She turned onto her side and closed her eyes only to realize that the lantern was still lit. But what did it matter? She was too tired to be bothered by such a soft glow, and it would go out in its own time when the oil was burned…
When she awoke, it was to a pale darkness. And she was not alone in the bed. Something heavy was holding her down into the deep feather mattress. Olivia investigated and found that it was an arm across her waist. And it was another leg that was tangled with her own.
As she lay, rigid with shock, she could hear her bedmate’s deep, even breathing. She investigated further. He was as naked as she was.
“Did I wake you?” the pirate asked sleepily.
“You’re in my bed!”
“Actually it’s my bed.”
Even through the tendrils of sleep, Olivia could hear the laugh in his voice.
“But I’m sleeping in it,” she objected, wondering why she wasn’t screaming her maidenly outrage. Maybe it was the magic again, but she was utterly aware in every fiber of her body of the powerful physical presence beside her. This was not entrancement, it was reality, and the reality held only fascination.
“It’s been my bed for three nights… or is it four?” she murmured.
“This would be the fourth,” he said, his breath rustling against the back of her neck. The arm around her waist moved so that his hand flattened on her belly.
Olivia’s stomach contracted involuntarily. She tried to push his hand away with as much success as an ant trying to move a mountain. But then, she didn’t seem to be pushing with true conviction. “You didn’t sleep in it before,” she protested.
“In the opinion of your physician, you were too ill for a bedmate,” he responded solemnly. “The medical opinion has now changed.”
The hand on her belly remained still and warm and curiously unthreatening. Olivia felt his other hand now on her back, moving up between her shoulder blades, clasping her neck firmly, pushing up into her hair, cupping her scalp. It felt wonderful and strangely familiar, as if sometime he’d touched her in this way before.