Seaswept Abandon (The McClellans Series, Book 2) Author's Cut Edition Read online

  He was uncertain he believed it himself.

  While Jericho was questioning the reasons for his self-imposed celibacy, Red was sitting on the floor of the cabin, her back against the padded bench, raising a flask of whiskey to her lips. Her original reason for reaching for the flask was of no importance any longer. That niggling ache in the back of her throat, brought on by the string of curses she had laid on Jericho's head long after he was out of her hearing, had ceased to be a concern after two short swallows. Gradually a comforting warmth had erased the ache in her throat as well as the good sense to stop drinking. She was determined to extend the pleasant, numbing sensation to every part of her body that hurt, particularly her heart.

  Her smile was a trifle sad. Her heart seemed peculiarly immune to the healing effects of the alcohol. What could she expect when Jericho had done naught but trample on and abuse it. "Probably doesn't credit me with one," she told the room at large. "And if the truth be known, it's most likely this brain fever that's made me so missish. I refuse to entertain any finer feelings for one Jericho Smith." Outside, water slapped at the hull of the schooner and she imagined it applauded her decision. She tipped the flask once more to her lips and found that her previous drink had drained it. Carelessly she dropped the empty container back into the bench and sought the other she had seen. She was distracted from her purpose by a faint rustling sound as her skirt caught beneath her and she knelt on it.

  Frowning, and with the uncertain movements that spoke of her recent activity, she wrestled with the skirt as if it were a living thing and bent on thwarting her purpose.

  Given her condition, it took no small amount of single-mindedness to find the source of the crackling. She forgot all about her quest for the other flask as she tore at the basting stitches in her hem and found a folded piece of parchment. Wrinkled, creased, and fragile, it threatened to fall apart as she took it from its hiding place. She broke the seal clumsily, tearing the paper as she did so. The writing had been all but obliterated by the repeated washings and dunking the skirt had received. It was amazing the parchment had survived at all.

  She wondered at it, wove intriguing stories about its presence in her hem, but never once hit on anything near the truth. She struggled to make out the faint, spidery handwriting by holding it over a candle flame. Not only did she find no message, visible or invisible, but she burned her thumb and one corner of the parchment. Impatient with herself and her awkwardness, she tossed the letter on the bench, promised she would show it to Jericho upon his return, and made her unsteady way to the deck for some fresh air.

  Jericho's approach to the schooner was silent, but he decided he could have announced his presence with a score of whining bagpipes for all that Red took notice. He nearly tripped over her in the dark as he climbed on deck. Diverted, he noted she merely waved a hand in front of her nose, as if she were brushing aside a bothersome pest, and turned on her side. Kneeling beside her to make sure she was all right, Jericho smelled the problem before both knees touched the deck.

  Knowing that he would be rid of her tomorrow, he felt he could forgive her much—even the liberal use of his small supply of spirits. Still, he considered, better not let her think he was going soft in the head. With that in mind, he filled a bucket with cold river water, and before he had second thoughts poured the contents all over Red.

  She dreamed she was drowning, and when she realized she wasn't, she came out of her nightmare bent on revenge. It only took her a moment to get her bearings. "You great, cloddish oaf!" she said as she clambered to her feet, wiping straggling wet hair out of her face. "Have you no conscience? Would you have me drown?" She advanced on him, lifting her dripping skirt out of the way of her unsteady feet, anger in every line of her sodden frame.

  Jericho dropped the bucket and thrust his hands forward, palms out, to keep her at bay. He wondered if she could see the unholy amusement in his eyes. "Now, Red," he said placatingly. "Watch your step. You don't want to slip on the deck." Remembering that morning's accident brought a devilish grin to Jericho's lips.

  That grin, more than what he said, enraged her. It seemed as if every one of those even white teeth was glinting in the moonlight. Never had she known such provocation. She picked up the discarded bucket by its rope handle and swung it at Jericho's head with all her might.

  She was nothing if not accurate. If he hadn't stepped backward at the last moment he would have been lying flat out on the schooner's deck. She had even swung a trifle low, anticipating he would duck. Would that he had, she thought spitefully, as the force of her swing sent her spinning and allowed Jericho to grab her when her back was turned.

  "Oof!" she gasped as Jericho's arms came hard about her waist, squeezing the air from her lungs. The bucket flew from her hand and sailed into the opening of the hold, clattering noisily as it bounced down the stairs. "Beast! Let me go! You started this!" She twisted in his arms and repeatedly kicked backward, aiming for his shins. Her attempts to free herself and hurt him only compounded her frustration, because his arms were as secure as steel bands and he had an uncanny instinct that allowed him to anticipate her blows and avoid them.

  "Give?" he prompted, with great superiority. He adjusted her again in his hold, securing her flailing arms in front of her this time. Now she could not reach behind him and pinch as was her wont. "C'mon, Red. Have done. It was only a little water."

  "A little water?" she said, appalled. Still she writhed in his arms like a wild thing. "You may as well have tossed me overboard!"

  "Don't tempt me," he said. This was followed by a grunt as the heel of one of her shoes finally made contact with his right instep—hard. Even through his boot it hurt like hell as Red, glorying in her success, ground her weight mercilessly on the tender part. He bounced her in his arms, lifting her for a brief moment, and relieved the pressure. At the same time, she twisted, and with strength born of her fury, was able to release herself.

  She staggered back, straining for balance on the shifting deck, while Jericho did the same. Jericho found his first, but remained where he was, slightly crouched and not a little wary of his opponent's next move. A moment later he questioned her sanity, as she pulled up the hem of her skirt and went for her dagger. He had no idea she wore it with any regularity. Whatever else she might have forgotten, how to use her weapon obviously remained clear in her mind. Squinting, Jericho saw her advance in the pale moonlight, something feral in her eyes.

  He retreated a few steps to provide an opportunity to reason with her. "Have a care, Red," he warned. "You're makin' too much of this. I meant nothin' but to wake you from your stupor."

  "And I mean nothing but to wake you from yours. I am not your pet that you may toss or trample or tame as you see fit." She continued to stalk him.

  "If you stop now, Red, we'll call it quits. It's clear you have no recollection of my warning to you at Wolfe's. But so help me, if you keep comin' I'll take you down, woman or no."

  She had cornered Jericho against the rail. She stood far enough away that he could not strike but close enough that he could not doubt her aim. He had not yet reached for his own weapon. "I seem to have misplaced the bucket, but if you will drop over the side, I will consider us even." When he did not move, she jabbed insolently at him with her dagger. "Come, Jericho. What is a little water to someone who enjoys playing with it as much as you? Up with you. Over the side." She struck at the air again, pointing out the route he should take. She felt wonderfully malicious and hoped her smile was goading him beyond bearing.

  Jericho wondered how the outcome of their battle would differ if he could swim. Would he have complied with her demands to throw himself in the river? Probably not, he decided, but at least he would have had a choice. He had none now. He truly doubted it would do any good to explain he could not swim a stroke. She would not believe him, and he would be forced to disarm her anyway. And if she did believe him? Well, he was not going to allow opportunity for her to laugh at him.

  "What am I to do with
you?" She was asking rhetorically. "Can you not play the game when you are being teased? Shall I plead prettily?"

  "Give me the dagger, Red," Jericho drawled in bored tones.

  She shook her head.

  "If I take it from you, you won't like it."

  "If you try, I guarantee you won't like it."

  Jericho's hands were resting casually at either side of his waist on the rail. With virtually no warning, they tightened. At the same time his arms stiffened, supporting his weight as he thrust his feet up and out and sprang forward. He released the rail and for a moment he was airborne and vulnerable. If she had anticipated this attack and leaped out of the way he would have dropped painfully to the deck, but Jericho's charge was so stunningly swift and so visually elegant that she was unprepared for anything except the weight of him bearing down on her.

  She made an effort to protect herself from his assault by crossing her arms in front of her. As soon as the soles of his boots touched her forearms she began reeling backward. In amazement, she watched as Jericho landed lightly and gracefully on his feet while she thudded to the deck, trapped in the tangle of her soggy skirt and slips. She still gripped her dagger, but not for long. Jericho straddled her prone figure and stepped on her wrist, paralyzing her fingers so that they opened against her will. He removed his foot, and still straddling her, dropped to his knees. He had the dagger at her throat before her fingers recovered their feeling.

  Breathless and furious, she waited for Jericho's next move. She could feel the point of the knife press lightly against the hollow of her throat. He had only to twist it ever so slightly to draw blood, or apply the smallest pressure to plunge it in.

  Jericho's weight rested on his own legs rather than on her stomach, but he dallied briefly with the idea of really sitting on her, just to remind her who had gotten the best of whom. "Well, Red? Give?"

  Her expression every bit as mutinous as it had been when she had the upper hand, she shook her head. She would have scratched herself against the point of the dagger if Jericho hadn't lifted it a fraction.

  "Have a care," he cautioned her, enjoying himself immensely. He tossed his cocked hat aside and adjusted the fit of his jacket, taking care to keep a careful grip on the knife. "I'm a patient man, Red, and I'm prepared to wait you out. But I might as well be comfortable."

  She would have liked to spit at him, but it would have been like spitting in the wind. At any rate, her drinking bout had dried her mouth. It was unconscionable the way he continued to best her, and it did nothing for her temperament. "What do you want from me?" she asked tightly.

  "I've a mind to make you pay." As he said the words his cool blue eyes narrowed and swept her flushed face, attaching a new meaning to his demand of which he was only partially aware.

  She felt an odd tightness in her throat that had nothing to do with the weapon pressed against her flesh. "I give," she said breathlessly, struggling a bit beneath him, hoping her hasty surrender would appease him.

  He watched her for several long minutes, taking in the brightness of her eyes, the tangle of her hair, the stubborn jut of her chin. He strained to see the spray of freckles on the high curve of her cheeks that seemed so odd in light of her profession. But they appeared to be invisible now, leaving her complexion pale in the moon's silvery light. "So anxious of a sudden? I think it's too late for merely giving in. There are terms to be met now." He dragged the edge of the dagger gently down the exposed flesh of her chest until it rested at the neckline of her saque.

  She swallowed her gasp. His intent was clear, and she only listened with half an ear as he threatened to slice her blouse to her waist if she did not remove it. The rest of her attention was focused on the soft, uneven pattern of his breathing, a raggedness so slight that she had to look to his broad chest for confirmation. Quickly she glanced at his face and read the clear desire in his eyes. A calmness settled over her, a serenity that was mocked by the thudding of her heart. "Are you certain this is what you want, Jericho?" she asked quietly, stilling beneath him.

  "I'm certain. You?"

  Her response was to reach for the hem of her saque and pull it over her head, pausing only to allow Jericho to lift the dagger. She dropped the overblouse to one side and pointed to the knife, which now rested at the lacy edge of her chemise between her breasts. "I think we can be rid of that now."

  Jericho's eyes dropped to the weapon and ended up taking in the full beauty of her breasts, immodestly concealed by her damp bodice. His hands ached to touch them, his mouth to taste them, yet he held the knife, remembering his vow to be neither gentle nor kind. He refused to yield the weapon so that she might be the one who would bend and soften while he remained unchanged by her. "You'll have to show me you can be trusted," he whispered.

  Her smile was full of witchery as her hands fell on his thighs and stroked the taut material of his navy breeches as if no barrier existed. "What would you have me do?" she asked softly as her palms came precariously close to the surging evidence that he desired her. She called on her recent dreams and fantasies to guide her. Her fingers drew close, then retreated. Her teasing prompted him to make an involuntary thrust forward to follow her.

  "Siren," he growled as he slipped the dagger beneath the bottom of her chemise and began nudging it upward. "Take this flimsy bit of provocation off or I swear it will be naught but a rag in a moment."

  The chemise went the way of the saque, and she continued to watch Jericho expectantly. She knew he had seen her naked before, but she also knew he had never looked at her as he did now, his eyes devouring, his body taut with the strength of his arousal. She arched beneath him, willing him to cup her breasts, touch their stiff ends with the rough pads of his fingers. He wanted to, she could see that he wanted to, yet he denied himself. There was a grim, almost pained set to his mouth.

  With a swift powerful stroke, Jericho embedded her dagger in the deck and unstraddled her. At first she thought he was going to leave her, or worse, toss her skirt up and simply have at her. He did neither of these things. His hands slipped beneath her naked back and lifted her until she was partially sitting up, supported as well as secured in his embrace. Her breasts flattened briefly against the coarse texture of his jacket, and she found the contrast not unpleasant. Nor was she hurt when his fingers tugged at the damp strands of hair at her nape, pulling her head back and exposing the long line of her throat. Her mouth parted slightly. Her lashes shuttered the anticipation in her eyes. There was a harshness inherent in each of his actions that could have been violent had Jericho had any less than full control. She was unafraid. It was only his kiss that punished.

  Jericho's rough jerk brought her mouth to him so that in effect she initiated the kiss, but it was he who controlled what passed between them. His mouth pressed hard on hers, a lover's stamp born of Jericho's jealousy that anyone had gone before him. His lips moved to obliterate any lingering memory she might have had of another. His tongue touched the soft underside of her upper lip and he welcomed the shudder that swept her and passed into him. She responded to his urgency, understood something of his pain, and gave him the fullness of her mouth. Measure for measure, she returned the pressure of his lips and showed him that she wanted more as her hands slipped behind his head to make him, in part, her captive.

  Her tongue swept the row of teeth she had tried to knock out of his head earlier. "I'm glad I didn't," she whispered against his mouth when he broke the kiss and sucked in air.

  "Hmm?" he asked, then showed he had little interest in her reply, because his mouth effectively cut it off. The hand that was not in her hair swept across her back, and it was then he realized how chilled she was in the cool night air. "Below," he muttered shortly. "It will be warmer."

  She didn't know she was cold until Jericho freed her from his arms. Struck by his rather glacial composure, she hastily gathered her garments, and holding them protectively in front of her, led the way to their cabin. Jericho lighted several tallow candles; and when he turned from
his task saw she was standing by the bunk, her bundle still raised in front of her.

  One of Jericho's brows kicked up in question. "Have you forgotten what comes next?" he asked. "Or are you having second thoughts?"

  Both, actually, she wanted to tell him. She said nothing, however, and dropped the clothing.

  The descent to the cabin had given Jericho time to evaluate his desire. He still wanted her, but she would come on his terms. He was through trying to erase from his mind that she was anything but a strumpet. That way lay danger. He would not give her an opening to drive her wedge. "Get rid of your other things," he said, jerking his chin in her direction. He would not permit her to know what it cost him to stand across the room from her, drinking in her beauty in the candlelight, and deny himself the tenderness of a soft and giving embrace. He remained seemingly unmoved as she stepped out of her shoes and removed her stockings. There was nothing in his face to encourage her as she unfastened her skirt and pulled it off with her undergarments. He sucked in his breath when she was naked, but covered it with a curt order to get in bed. He held the vision of her, lithe and supple, bare flesh faintly luminescent in the flame and shadow, long after she had disappeared beneath the blankets.

  He reached inside his jacket and withdrew the notice he had taken from town. He tossed it aside with no explanation and reached again, this time pulling out all that remained of his continental notes. He held them up so she would know what they were. "This is so there will be no question as to the nature of what is going to happen between us."

  She blanched as the paper money fluttered to the desktop. It was insult heaped on injury that the notes were virtually worthless. Here was her chance to gather her affronted pride and tell him his money could be put to better use to stuff a mattress. It was too late for that, though. The ache and emptiness inside was too large to derive any satisfaction from another trenchant speech. She would fill the emptiness with him now and worry about the ache later. She was very much afraid she loved him, though how that could be possible, she didn't know. "I am not the one questioning," she reminded him quietly. And after an instant's hesitation: "Come to me."