Chapter 17

Adrian battled the raging storm at the quarterdeck with Matheson, Thomas, and Kinsley at the helm. When the thick overcast faded from pitch to ash on the horizon, the storm relented enough for him to leave the helm to Thomas and descend belowdecks.

He found Elias fast asleep in the hammock, cradled in Miss Hawthorn's embrace. A heavy weight pressed on his heart. He was doing his best, but he teetered close to embodying the pirate label Miss Hawthorn branded him with, and he had his limits as the role model Elias needed. Not to mention, a privateer vessel was practically a warship, and keeping the boy on board the Ranger was far from a safe haven.

He stared at them, anger boiling inside, directed at her for being what she was, for making him need her, for earning his gratitude—and admiration.

He wished she could simply be Ashcroft's betrothed and not Miss Hawthorn, the kind and generous woman who cared about his crew, but she had broken that illusion long ago.

Her damp chemise clung to her body, and the frock he had lent her seemed only to emphasize the chill she must feel. Her hair, nearly dry by now, stuck to her scalp, and in the dim light from the lantern, he saw the faint blue tinge on her lips and fingers.

Sliding one hand behind her neck and the other beneath her knees, he lifted her from the swaying hammock. Her skin was cold against his hands, and he cursed himself for not checking on her sooner.

"Ainsley." He turned to the guard in the companionway. "Stay with Elias in the galley until Freddie gets back. Give him more grog if he wakes up."

"Aye, Capt'n."

He carried Miss Hawthorn through the companionway, grunting as the raging sea tossed him toward the bulkhead.

Miss Hawthorn stirred in his arms. "I can walk," she mumbled, voice feeble and far from convincing, but she snuggled into his chest instead of resisting his embrace.

She is freezing, that's all. She is seeking warmth.

Inside the grand cabin, he settled her in the chair and fumbled for the lantern, aided by a few sporadic flashes of lightning. He swore when his boots shattered the remains of the lamp. No wonder the whole ship smelled like the inside of a whale carcass. He retrieved the lantern from the companionway and lit it. Shadows danced upon the walls when he hung the metal lamp on the hook above the table.

Miss Hawthorn shivered like a wet dog in the frost. Dark shadows stained the area beneath her eyes.

"I would like to take a look at your gash, and you need to get out of those wet clothes."

"I don't h-have anything else."

At least that wasn't a direct refusal. Adrian opened the sea chest and riffled through the contents until he found the smallest shirt he had, a bunch of bandages, and a bottle of rum.

"You can use this tonight." He laid the garment on the table, but it slid off immediately and landed on the floor. "Please let me have a look at your wound. I need to know if you require stitches."

"I don't—ow!"

She flinched and placed a protective hand over her wound when the Ranger tossed and propelled her into the armrest.

"Miss Hawthorn, please. You have no reason to trust me, but if that wound gets infected, there is little Freddie can do for you out here. Wounds have a higher risk of infection in the tropics."

Her gaze narrowed a touch as if conflicted, but then she nodded. She grabbed the hem of her chemise, but a violent lurch of the ship flung her and the chair into a wild spin across the cabin.

"It might be easier if you lie down," he said, unhooking the lantern.

She slipped out of his frock and crawled into the berth. Adrian suspended the lantern on a hook above her and knelt beside the berth. He touched the hem of her chemise but then hesitated. A forbidden curiosity stirred. He looked into her eyes, expecting to find fear or loathing, but she gazed at him with a trusting expression.

A whirlwind of warring thoughts churned within him: the conflict between his deep-seated hatred, forged by the treacherous ways of her betrothed, and the glowing ember of an unexpected attraction.

She was muddling the very air he breathed, challenging his convictions and weaving an intricate web of tangled emotions within him.

Adrian's trembling hands betrayed his inner turmoil as his fingers lingered on the delicate fabric, waiting for a sign of consent or rejection. Miss Hawthorn nodded, a twitchy jerk with her head, and he lifted the chemise gently, his breath catching in his throat as he revealed a pair of slim ankles.

An unconscious sigh of relief escaped him when he found the damp pantaloons that covered her legs and hips, but clinging to her body, the garment did little to conceal her feminine curves. He clenched his teeth as he pulled the flimsy garment over her hips and exposed a flat but soft stomach. Her skin was smooth and even, stretching across her lower abdomen as if she were a porcelain doll, delicate and flawless. He had seen that already when the howling wind had betrayed her every curve beneath the wet garment, but seeing her bare skin in the lantern glow made it much more alluring.

Much more intimate.

A wave of desire rippled through him, tinged with guilt. The lamp swung above them, screeching him out of his mulling.

Adrian concentrated on her wound. It was a shallow cut, slithering across her lower rib, half an inch from piercing through the softer and more vulnerable tissue on her belly.

"You're starting to bruise."

She flinched when he prodded around the wound with a light touch. His fingers caressed her flesh, and though she was freezing cold, his fingertips burned at the touch.

"Can you take a deep breath without feeling a sharp pain in your side?"

She drew a deep but careful breath. "Yes."

"That's good. You will look pretty battered for a while, but you have no fractures," he confirmed, voice gruff. "Do you feel nauseated or dizzy?"

He unscrewed the lid on the rum bottle and poured some of the liquor on a bandage.

"No, only tired." Her teeth clattered. "And cold."

He lifted his gaze to her face. "Did you hit your head at any point?"

"Not that I can recall."

With a light touch, he dabbed the cloth to the small trickle of blood. Miss Hawthorn winced and bit her lip but didn't cry out.

"I'm sorry."

He repeated the process until the wound was clean and reached for a new bandage. "Can you sit?"

He helped her upright and wrapped the bandage around her waist, ensuring the dressing was snug but not too tight. Then he pushed to his feet.

"You've been very fortunate, Miss Hawthorn." He grabbed a jar from the sea chest. "Fortunate that you weren't dragged into the sea and that the cutlass wasn't angled straight at your soft guts. Thank you for saving Elias and saving my ship. If it hadn't been for you, many men would have died here tonight."

A soft reddening crept up her cheeks. "As I said, I merely did what everybody else would have done."

He scooped a dollop of ointment from the jar, gently rubbing her sore palms.

"No, you didn't. You're the bravest and most selfless woman I have ever met. Hell, not many men come close."

Her blush ignited, scorching her cheeks. "Why, thank you."

He handed her the shirt he had picked and found a fresh shirt and breeches for himself. Then he snuffed out the lantern, slipped into his dry clothes in the dark, and waited for the rustle from the berth to cease.

A quick rap at the door broke through the raging storm. Adrian landed a heavy hand on the edge of the door, halting its swing to shield Miss Hawthorn from prying eyes. A thin beam of light sliced through the darkness.

"Yes?"

"The ship is under control." Scott's voice drifted into the cabin. "The storm is waning, and we have sufficient steering to continue the voyage without going to shore."

"Well done. And Elias?"

"He's deep asleep."

"Very well." Adrian exhaled. "Oversee the change of watch and then get some rest."

"Aye, Capt'n."

The hinges let out a tiny screech as Adrian closed the door. "Did you remove all your wet clothes?" he asked Miss Hawthorn.

"Uh…"

"You need to remove your pantaloons as well." She remained motionless. "I won't touch you, Miss Hawthorn. You have my word."

She fumbled for a moment, and then the damp garment landed on the floor with a soggy plop. He willed away the picture forming in his mind, kicked off his boots, and crawled under the blanket next to her, every inch of his body hurting. His arm sneaked around her waist, careful not to touch her gash, and pulled her close, cradling her in his embrace.

"What are you doing?" she demanded and stiffened.

"Relax. I gave you my word. I won't lay a finger on you, but you'll tremble to death unless you find some heat."

Her body shivered against his, and every time the Ranger climbed a swell, her backside ground against his chest and her bottom against his groin. He willed down the charge emerging in his loins.

Heat from his chest and legs seeped into her stiff body, and after a while, she relaxed in his embrace. His eyelids grew heavier, and he hovered on the brink of sleep when she suddenly spoke.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice so soft he hardly caught it over the howling wind.

He blinked into the darkness. "About what?"

"I thought you forced Elias up there, but he told me you didn't. Nobody did. He wanted to prove himself to you so you would find him worthy. He is worried you'll see him as the useless boy his stepfather did."

He sighed. "Bloody hell."

It hadn't occurred to him that Elias's stepfather still haunted him, but he realized he should have understood. He knew how Elias's stepfather was and what he had done to both the boy and his mother.

"And Freddie told me you saved Elias from a life on the streets," she continued.

"His stepfather had already tried to kill him once."

"What?" She turned around to face him, though the cabin was pitch dark. He groaned inside and swallowed when her breasts pressed against his chest. There wasn't a power in the world that could soften his masculine reaction to her, and he shifted so she wouldn't notice the growing bulge in his breeches.

"Locked him in a shed and lit it on fire," he grunted. "As luck would have it, Elias knew his way out between two loose planks."

"Dear Lord," she breathed. She was silent for a while. "I judged you too quickly."

"You had every reason to. Elias's fate on board the Ranger is kinder than most and far better than he would otherwise face. He has food in his belly, a place to sleep, and nobody deals him punches simply for being around. What is more, he belongs somewhere. He has a family here, though they might sometimes be rough on him."

"I guess you're right," she whispered. "But he still could have died today."

"Every day on the high seas can be our last. We all know that. At least Elias is doing what he wants. Thanks to you, he still has a chance."

She shuddered as if haunted by some dreadful memory, but if Miss Hawthorn shared his vision of the churning black sea swallowing Elias, he felt her distress. Watching her being pulled toward the same abyss had shaken him in ways he couldn't name. He knew better than anyone how quickly the most serene sea could turn cruel, and cradling her alive and warm in his arms, he instinctively tightened his grip around her.

He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but he didn't have that right anymore.

Her breath, soft and warm, brushed his chest, sending sparks across his flesh and tearing him away from the past as if his mind refused to dwell on the atrocities of her compatriots.

She evoked in him a lost dream of a wife, a family, and a home. Alas, the woman supposed to fulfill his dream had forsaken him the day they chained him in Newgate, her aristocratic nose wrinkling as if he were a weed in her bouquet of roses.

He savored the rhythm of Miss Hawthorn's breathing, how it softened and steadied as his heat spread to her frozen body. Warm and pliant, she nestled into his embrace as the waves rocked them.

His cock strained against his breeches, sweat pearling on his brow and between his thighs. He couldn't help his reaction to her, but he quelled the urge to press her against his frame and let his hands rove her luscious body.

"How did you get those scars on your back?"

Her question surprised him, and his thoughts traveled back to Newgate, to the damp, moldy walls that caged him, the fiery whip that lacerated his back, and the nights when the agony was so unbearable he would have welcomed death if he'd had the means to provoke it.

"Courtesy of your betrothed."

"He'll come after you and kill you," she mumbled, half asleep.

"I know. I'm waiting for him."