The Pleasure of His Bed. Donna Grant
Damon felt bereft at the absence of her touch, even though she remained in his sight.
How dangerous was that? When had he become so enamored of the little troublemaker who’d stolen onto his ship—and stolen his heart?
No, that can’t happen! Keep your thoughts straight! The loss of blood is making you weak for her.
He blinked against a wave of nausea and then realized Sofia stood solemnly before him, holding a short iron key. Delacroix took it in his left hand, bungling as he fit its tip into the narrow lock of the handcuff. She held it against her chest to steady it for him.
At the snick of the first cuff, Sofia snatched the key and unfastened her other wrist. She leaned over to unlock her ankles and kicked the offending irons aside.
“Now we can get down to it,” she murmured. She yanked the chair from his desk and sat him down on it in one smooth, powerful move. “Better be gulping some of that brandy, captain, while I fetch the needle. I’m the finest seamstress you ever laid unfocused eyes on, but I promise you this will hurt.”
His eyes were unfocused? Damon forced his attention back to her…watched her gray uniform strain against the ample curve of her waist when she stood on tiptoe to fetch the medicine chest. Why was he fighting this attraction? Sofia was a fine-looking woman—
And she’ll lead you down the primrose path every time. Just because she can.
Not that he could think of a reason not to follow her.
The long needle she lifted from the medicine chest made him turn away. Damon took a long chug from the brandy bottle, closing his eyes as the liquor’s fire ran down his throat and into his stomach.
“Perhaps you should lie down on the bed—”
“I’ll sit right here. I’m fine.”
“—so I can reach the wound at a better angle,” Sofia finished in a firmer tone. Then she chortled. “You don’t really think I’ll take advantage of your disadvantaged state—wrap my wicked legs around you and hump you—when you can’t hump back? Do you?”
A weak laugh escaped him. “Point well taken.”
She pulled a length of discolored thread from a wooden spool and snapped it quickly between her teeth. “We’ll see who comes to a point—and who takes it—now that I’m a free woman, captain.”
Damon coughed. “You could’ve used the razor to cut—”
“And why would I touch the vile blade that did this to your face?” she retorted. “You might consider a beard, captain. Deft as I am, I can’t guarantee you won’t scar. Now close your eyes and drink up. Cock your head this way and hold it steady…steady…”
He wasn’t prepared for the searing pain when the point of the needle pierced his skin and then caught the other side of the wound. “Jesus, woman, you’ll—”
“Suck down more liquor and hold still,” she ordered in a low voice. “If you want a bullet to bite, tell me where to find one.”
Her face swam before him, but there was no mistaking her intent: before he could argue, she nipped him again with the needle, and again.
To keep from blacking out, Damon gulped the fiery brandy. He concentrated on its sweet burn…thought about what style of beard might cover a scar…a constant reminder of how fast and far he’d fallen at her suggestion of sex. “Ouch, dammit,” he muttered and then sucked in a shuddery breath.
“I’m so sorry, Damon, I know this has to hurt,” she whispered. “Two more should do it.”
Before he could protest, Sofia skillfully stitched the rest of his wound. She knotted the thread and this time used his razor to sever it. “Didn’t want to pull out your stitches if I didn’t bite right,” she explained.
He nearly keeled over from the thought of that pain…of possibly having to endure a whole new set of stitches. The familiar room lurched around him despite how he fought the blackness that threatened to close in.
“Are…are we tossing in a storm?” he mumbled, glancing around.
“I don’t recall any clouds warning us of…”
Sofia tucked his poor head against her shoulder. With a clean cloth, she gingerly dabbed the wet, sticky wound. “Another wiping with that brandy, and we’ll be done,” she crooned as if he were a scared little boy. “You did well, captain. You’d have finished stitching me on the floor, I’m afraid. I don’t handle pain well.”
Damon sighed languidly. After one more swig of the warm, sweet brandy, he let himself drift as he rested against the firm, solid warmth of her. “No, you’re not afraid, Sofia,” he murmured. “You’re the bravest woman I know. And thank you for…having your way with me.”
Sofia smiled against his soft, dark curls. The captain had finally passed out in his chair and was dead weight against her.
7
Damon awoke slowly, aware of a stale sweetness in his mouth and a pillow that felt extraordinarily soft and warm and…moved and had a pulse. His eyes drifted open, and he saw dusky, sweet skin. Skin that begged him to kiss it. So he did. “Sofia.”
“Welcome back, captain. You sailed away for a bit, but you’ve returned to me.”
When he tried to lift his head, a gentle hand held him firmly in place against her chest. “Easy, now. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but your stitches are holding nicely. Don’t move too fast, or you’ll fall off your chair.”
Chair…stitches…pain alongside his chin that made it all come back: he’d cut himself with his razor because of a brazen remark she’d made. Had apparently survived her surgical attempts to fix him—such as he was—and yet his backside felt stiff from sitting on a hard chair.
He scowled. “You’ve been standing here this whole time? How long was I—asleep?”
Her soft laughter rumbled under his ear, enveloping him in a cozy happiness. “What matters is that you rested long enough to let the wound clot and to allow your color to return. You were out long enough for me to realize what a handsome devil you’ll be if you grow that beard we talked about.”
“How long was I out?” he insisted.
Again she chuckled, the little minx. “Minutes, Damon. But, then, our days and weeks are made of mere minutes, aren’t they?”
He lifted his head faster than he should’ve, and her face swam before him. “Stop being so—I have a ship to run! I can’t stay in my quarters for—”
She shrugged prettily, which formed a tempting crevice between her breasts. “I haven’t felt a jolt or heard any nasty bumping noises, so your crew has been doing its job. Your quartermaster has taken charge. And isn’t that why you hired them?”
Women! They never saw the real point, did they? They—
Damon’s head turned ass-over-teakettle, and he damn near fell against her. “Fresh air. I need fresh air and cold water and—”
“Sit here by yourself while I fetch you some water, sir. Then we’ll see about a stroll along the deck railing.”
A stroll along…like some toothless old invalid being supported by a nursemaid as he clung to the railing? The image made Damon find the floor with his feet, and he immediately regretted it. He grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling as he heard Sofia’s exasperated sigh.
“Fight me, then,” she teased as she held the cup to his lips. “I’ll let you go upstairs and collapse in front of your men, if you insist. And when your head whacks the deck and your wound gushes blood, won’t you make a fine, inspiring sight?”
He gulped the water greedily, wishing she weren’t right. Why did this woman always have to be right, dammit?
“The