The Captain of All Pleasures (Sutherland Brothers #1) Page 7

Hell, he was. He despised it when people analyzed him. “You don’t know a damn thing about me—”

“Clearly, I know you don’t laugh.”

Enough. He purposely swung her down as if he was dropping her.

“Wh-whoa!” she squealed as she fell, but he caught her just before she tumbled to the ground.

After steadying herself, she pushed her thick, tangled hair out of her face and tilted her head. With a hurt expression, she asked in a genuinely confused voice, “What’d you do that for?”

He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. The wench had a great mane of hair. He took in the piles of curls tousled from the night, curls that couldn’t quite decide if they wanted to be red or gold. They framed her oddly pretty face and curved along her slender neck. His lips itched to kiss that neck .

He shook his head at such driveling thoughts. “I’m not sure I want to take you anywhere safe. You have a barbed tongue on you and don’t know the meaning of gratitude. You belong at the Mermaid.”

Her chin jerked up. “You,” she said in a rising voice, “were there right along with me. Or were you too drunk to remember?”

“Lady, you’re on your—” he began, but saw her eyes dart toward the sound of a fight breaking out not twenty yards behind them. Her face fell, and her body shook. For all her bravado, she was truly afraid.

Before she could run, he grabbed her waist and tossed her over his shoulder once again. Marching toward his ship, he felt a curious satisfaction as he carried her along.

He didn’t know what it was about the girl. Perhaps it was that no one had ever looked at him the way she had in the Mermaid, like a siren.

Like she’d die if he didn’t bed her.

Derek had told himself he wanted to find her simply to settle his curiosity. It mystified him why a young woman, a young woman who obviously sold her body at the Mermaid and consorted with Lassiter, no less, would look at him the way she had that night. First with desire, later with fury.

Plus, he’d needed to know if he could want her that badly, or if it had been the drink that night.

It wasn’t the drink. What was the matter with him? She was a sharp tongued, insulting prostitute who dallied with his worst enemy. And she had peculiar features. Overblown ebony eyes, too dark and large for her small, gamine face, contrasted with the pout of her lips. It was as though one artist, vivid and wild, was unleashed to paint her eyes and hair, while another labored over the faultless bow of her lips .

The wench began working up her pique once again. She must have thought at that point that he posed the greater danger to her, because she began writhing on his back, straining to break his hold. She weighed so little, he easily held her firm.

Then she twined her fists together and pounded his back. The force of the hit surprised him, but his stride didn’t falter. It simply earned her a light slap on her shapely backside, so plainly outlined in her snug trousers.

“You! Oooh, you can’t—”

He rested his hand there. “Clearly, I can,” he said, using her word. She sputtered in outrage, and his lips crooked up. Then it was his turn to be shocked when she called him names that would make his most hardened sailors blush. It wasn’t just the creativity of her curses or the venom dripping from every word that surprised him. He could expect that with her background.

No, he’d noted before that she didn’t have a dockside English accent, but in her fury, her words became crisper and less like what he’d expect. In fact, he couldn’t place her accent at all. With a twinge of unease, Derek realized he could determine nothing about her speech except that, barring the colorful phrases, it sounded very cultured and very affronted.

He dismissed his misgivings. He had seen her in a tap house known for its whores, leaving for the night with a man twice her age. Not exactly the nocturnal activity of a lady.

Whoever this girl was, he would take her repeatedly this night and enjoy figuring her out later, sharp tongue and all. This couldn’t have worked out better, with the race in five days. Just enough time to enjoy her.

And then, as always happened with him to tire of her and sail away.

With Nicole easily draped across his shoulder, Captain Sutherland stepped onto the deck of his ship and waved casually as he strode past two bewildered guards posted outside. Nicole’s position embarrassed her, but the sight of the Southern Cross was enough to make her suck in a breath and briefly forget about cursing him. She’d never been so close to his ship, and as they boarded, she couldn’t help but look around in awe.

She’d always scoffed at the sailor’s fancy that a captain resembled his ship. But massive, bold, and dark, the Southern Cross was a credit to the idea. It was hard-planed and sharp-lined.

And forbidding.

Just when she’d decided she would attempt another escape, Sutherland reached the companionway. He dropped her to her feet and looked her over, as if making a decision about her. Finally, he said, “Go down the steps.”

She answered him with a disbelieving look. Of course she wouldn’t. Did he think she was insane? She didn’t know why he’d taken her back to his ship, hadn’t determined whether he’d realized who she was by now, and, most important, she didn’t like taking orders, especially from a man like him. She was opening her mouth to decline, thank you, no .

“Do it now.”

“No.”

“No?”

She guessed from his look of open surprise that the word was seldom used with him. “N-o,” Nicole spelled out. “Not until you tell me why you’ve brought—”

“Now,” he boomed, and all thought of rebellion ended. His tone made her jump to the stairs to get to the belly of the ship.

He didn’t scare her, she assured herself; he’d just startled her.

Swinging down easily after her, he walked to her slowly, assessing her. He bent down deftly to miss a rafter in the ceiling, reminding her of his great height. She should be nervous after he’d just yelled at her. Afraid after all she’d heard of him. Chancey, her father’s first mate, would say she had too much pluck for her own good. She supposed he’d be right, because she just couldn’t make herself be wary.

Yet Sutherland didn’t look as though he’d hurt her. No, he looks like he wants to eat me for dinner. His gaze stroked her like a physical touch, and she shivered. Those eyes, gray and dark, could easily be called cruel, but they held no anger toward her. She convinced herself that she could detect the promise of something more in their cold depths. Could that be the reason he’d taken her back to his ship? To kiss her?

For most of her life, Nicole had been uniformly rewarded whenever she’d done something forbidden. And if kissing Sutherland wasn’t forbidden

Irrationally, a part of her was thrilled at the prospect. But all this was crazy—Sutherland, the rogue who’d probably bedded a legion of beautiful women, desiring her, a scrawny girl with strange looks?