“How very kind you are.”
“Remind me to hide your dinner knife, cara, since you are in such a foul temper.” She turned away from him, and he stood quietly for several moments watching her walk quickly to the forecastle deck where several of his men were working.
“’Twould appear to me that ye make little headway, my lord,” Scargill said pensively, walking into the earl’s view. Out of habit, he smoothed down the coarse lock of red hair that fell over his forehead.
“It has been but two weeks,” the earl said coolly, shifting his gaze toward the distant Spanish coastline. “If I do not despair of the outcome, why should you?”
Emboldened by the earl’s direct question, Scargill said quickly, “Ye have the habit of twitting the girl mercilessly, my lord, and though the madonna is sharper in her wits than most ladies I’ve known, she has no chance with ye, what with ye being so much older and experienced. Hardly loverlike ye be, my lord.”
The earl laughed. “The madonna, as you and the men persist in calling her, despite her tender years, is quite able to cross swords with me. Verbally that is. And as to my not being loverlike, I doubt that you or anyone else is qualified to judge. Now, if you have done with dissecting my character, I suggest you speak with Arturo. I require a special dinner this evening for my lady, something very English for her waning appetite. It will be in the nature of a celebration. You might even call it a monthly celebration.” Grinning to himself, he turned away, his destination the helm and Mr. Donnetti.
As he strode along the highly polished deck, his eyes strayed toward Cassandra, who was sitting cross-legged, her skirts modestly tucked over her ankles, listening with avid attention to undoubtedly outrageous tales spun by Joseph, a rotund little Corsican once in the employ of the Barbary pirates. Hie men had taken to her, no doubt about that. A lady to her fingertips who did not lord it over any of them, and a lady whose sailing skills bettered those of many a man. When it became common knowledge that she spoke Italian, he had noticed with a rueful smile that the habitual foul language his men used all but disappeared.
The earl paused a moment and gazed up at the wind-bloated sails, estimating their speed. Since the storm in the Channel, the weather had turned glorious and warm. Though it was the end of June, the Atlantic was not famed for such a continued spate of good weather. If it held, they would reach Genoa a good week beforetimes.
Cassandra was standing now, and the wind flattened her skirt, outlining her hips and thighs. It was just as well that the weather was so mild, he thought, for she held all his attention. He felt a growing ache in his loins and turned away. Tonight he would possess her body, just as she would possess his. He did not believe that she would fight him, for he had unleashed the woman in her, and their four nights of abstinence had likely made her physical need as great as his. He suspected that she desired him, despite her monthly cycle, but he had not pushed her. He wanted her to accept him as her companion as well as her lover. They had passed hours on deck in the evenings, gazing at the brilliant constellations, and he had spoken softly of the past that he had known with her.
“Captain.”
The earl wiped the placid smile from his mouth and brought his attention to his first mate. “Yes, Mr. Donnetti?”
“There is a ship closing off port. She’s likely Spanish.”
He handed the earl a spyglass.
“It’s a Spanish frigate, two gun decks. Keep us windward, Mr. Donnetti. The Spanish captain is a fool if he thinks to engage us.”
“Aye, captain. The frigate is riding low in the water, heavily loaded, and cannot elevate her guns.”
The earl lowered the spyglass. “Command the men to battle stations. If the Spanish captain is unwise enough to engage us, we will fire broadside as a lasting lesson and outrun her. Needless to say, our cargo is far too precious to risk full battle.”