When they saw how much repair work there was to do, they’d set the anchor so the high tide wouldn’t move them too soon. Harriet managed the climb down to the cabin without losing her balance, and stared at the bunk in dismay. Even if she switched which end she put her head, she’d still practically be standing up. Maybe even slide off the bunk during the night.
Perhaps the sand fleas wouldn’t be so bad.
Then she spotted the hammock coiled on its hook.
Perfect.
* * *
Nick had debated sleeping on the beach, decided he didn’t want to end up scratching, and went to his cabin. His hammock would compensate for the tilt of the beached ship.
He stared at the hook for several heartbeats before he registered the fact that not only was the hammock uncoiled and the other end hooked up, the hammock was already occupied.
The ropes creaked as Miss Chase shifted in her sleep. She’d wrapped herself in a blanket, though one foot poked out, pale pink toes visible in the flickering light from the lantern she’d left lit over the table, the wick turned low. She’d folded his red and black plaid blanket neatly at the foot of the bed, which now angled up. Too steep an angle even for him to sleep in.
He stared down at her freshly scrubbed face, no trace of soot or blood left behind, and yearned to run the pad of his thumb over her lush bottom lip. Trace his fingers over her cheekbones, stroke her soft lashes.
What the hell had possessed him to kiss her this afternoon in the first place, and right in front of his men?
And why did he so desperately want to do it again?
He thought back to the pretty serving wench at the cantina today, and the invitation she’d offered. He’d been flattered yet completely uninterested, and not just because he was hot on the trail of the treasure his father didn’t want him to have. Even if they had stayed in port longer to revictual, he wouldn’t have gone upstairs with her.
His hand reached toward Miss Chase’s cheek, seemingly of its own volition. He caught himself just in time and swerved to pull the blanket over her exposed foot instead.
It wasn’t just lust. Certainly she was more attractive, physically, than he’d first thought when they’d been introduced at the Hartwell’s ball. She was more like a fresh rosebud rather than a showy rose in full bloom like Lady Slavin. But it was more than physical.
He’d dived into the Channel to rescue her when she was still new to him. Back then he’d admired her gumption, her tenacity. Today she’d jumped in to help defend the ship after Winston was injured. She hadn’t recoiled when the Jamaican put his bloody hands on her—had even helped him below—and when she came back and started helping Chang, she’d almost gone overboard again. Nick’s heart had been in his throat until her arse hit the deck, safe.
And then he’d seen the blood on her temple, on her neck. A close call to a serious injury. Or worse. And he’d had to reassure himself that she was fine, mingling their breath, tasting her in a kiss. He wanted to cradle her in his arms and protect her. Kiss her until she moaned in pleasure.
What was wrong with him?
He loved women. Long Meg or Pocket Venus, so thin he could span their waist with his hands or plump as a Christmas pudding, skin pale as cream or dark as coffee, and everything in between. Their curves, their soft skin, soft voices. Their soft hands, all over him. Pleasuring him as he pleasured them. A satisfying interlude, nothing more, before he moved on to his next adventure, next task, next comely lass.
He loved women, plural.
Not one woman, singular.
They should reach Porto in less than a week. With any luck, they’d beat Ruford to the treasure and be on their way back to England with it within a fortnight, and he and Miss Chase would go their separate ways.
Why did that prospect not give him a feeling of satisfaction?
He left his cabin in search of another hammock, shaking his head.
It wasn’t just his ship that tilted crazily.
Chapter 11
Harriet felt she was in the way of the men working on deck the next morning. She’d helped Big Jim milk the goats and stake them out on a patch of grass near the beach, and then looked for something useful to do. She eyed the men climbing the rigging, standing on the footropes, removing the shredded mainsail.
Jack waved for her to come up. With her gaze, she traced the path he’d taken to get to his precarious perch, across ropes that hung over the water. She’d have to swing over the railing to climb up. To work beside him, she would have to stand on a rope barely thicker than her thumb, suspended eighty feet above the tilted deck and shallow water below. The bottom of her stomach dropped out and her heart skipped three beats. Breakfast threatened to make a reappearance.
She shook her head.
Jack shrugged and went back to work.
She stared at the surf rolling ashore until the gentle rhythm and lulling sound steadied her pulse. What work could she do?
