The Pleasure of His Bed. Donna Grant

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      It took six days—six days!—to convince the captain he must raid the supply of spices aboard the Lady Constance if he wanted tastier meals. Jonas Comstock, set in his ways about how to cook for rough-and-tumble sailors, refused Sophia’s advice about using a bit of cinnamon on the dried apples or a sprinkling of herbs in his tasteless stew—until she had refused Damon Delacroix the spice he craved in his bed. The quickest way to a man’s heart might be through his stomach, but making him change required pain where he’d hurt the most.

      The captain had never really enjoyed Comstock’s cooking, so after he and Quentin Thomas swung aboard Lord Havisham’s ship for a chat with Captain Cavendish, Delacroix returned with a generous tin of the seasonings Sofia had requested.

      The results were immediate. As she peeped from the hole in the galley wall to where the sailors bent intently over their tin plates, their smiles and sighs of satisfaction made her grin. Conversation was forbidden during meals, to prevent arguments while the crew was packed into such close quarters, but the utter enjoyment on their faces spoke volumes.

      An uneven thunk…ka-thunk announced Comstock’s return from the table. His plate clattered into the dish tub as he stopped behind her. “Well, the squeaky wheel gets the oil,” he muttered, “so it seems you’ll not be peeling potatoes or washing dishes anymore, missy. If you weren’t the captain’s…courtesan, I’d have something different to say about that.”

      The captain’s courtesan. The phrase had a nice ring to it, even if Jonas had basically called her a whore. Sofia looked through the peephole again, hiding a smile. When Damon Delacroix spoke, everyone aboard his ship listened or faced the consequences.

      “It was never my intention to upstage you, Mr. Comstock,” Sophia said quietly. “I was doing the job I was given, and I used the resources at hand. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that mutton stew more for the rosemary and thyme I put in it. You wiped your plate with my fresh bread and then took more. Twice!”

      “Hard-tack biscuits is plenty good enough,” he muttered. “We’ll see how the men likes it when we runs short of supplies halfway across the Atlantic! We’ll see how happy you makes the captain then, when he’s got a shipful o’ empty bellies and short tempers!” He barked at Billy and Gasper, the two lads who assisted him, and they scurried to fetch water for the mountain of tin plates and cups that awaited them.

      Why was it wrong to feed these hardworking men good food? Did sailors willingly endure stale, overbaked biscuits and bowls of greasy swill for long voyages and short pay? These first days at sea had been enlightening: the cramped hammocks hanging below deck and the secretive skittering of rats there made service at the Havisham house look like a party by comparison. And when she thought about Daphne and Beatrix—the whining and sea sickness her mother must be tolerating—conditions aboard the Courtesan seemed rosy indeed.

      Thank goodness her captor hadn’t confined her in a cage in the dark, dank hold of his ship. The stench of unwashed bodies and live animals kept for slaughter would only get worse as the voyage went on. She appreciated her good fortune as Captain Delacroix’s slave and intended to work her magic on him whenever he wanted her.

      And for her next trick, she’d make her manacles disappear.

      6

      “You seem melancholy this morning, Sofia.”

      She continued to stare out the captain’s porthole window partly for effect—because her chained stance suggested her despondent mood—but also to keep the Lady Constance in sight. At this hour, before dawn broke fully, she liked to think about what her mother would be doing. Magdalena Martine had served the Havisham family since before their daughters were born, had devoted her best years to keeping their household in order.

      Had Mama convinced Daphne to quit sniveling? Had she caught Beatrix kissing a sailor yet?

      Is she angry because I disrupted her life without a moment’s notice? And that my chasing after Damon Delacroix has uprooted her forever?

      Sofia sighed wistfully. “Do you ever miss your mother, captain?”

      He looked up from lathering his face. In the flickering light from his oil lamp, the masculine shadow along his jaw called to her…such an alluring contrast between the white froth and that dark male stubble. As she recalled how his chin had chafed her when he’d put his head between her legs last night, his eyes blazed with blue fire.

      “My mother’s not the type a man misses.” He laid his brush aside to pick up his straight razor. “She nagged at my father until he left us when I was ten. Had a knack for wearing everyone out with her chiding and criticism, unfortunately.”

      “That’s why you left home for the sea?” she asked in a faraway voice. “I’ve always shared a wonderful love with Mama, even though I was born into service. She knows her place—her work—and she taught me to take pride in it, too.”

      “She certainly passed along her talent for cooking.” He pulled his face taut to shave around one side of his nose. “You greatly improved Comstock’s stew last night, Sofia, and I appreciate your СКАЧАТЬ