drawings, men were working on the ship, sewing sails, splicing rope, climbing rigging. In some they were playing, dancing, laughing, listening to one of their fellows strumming a lute, his back against the mast. And then there were three or four where naked men stood beneath a pump on the deck, the water glistening on their skins, laughter in their eyes.
Olivia had spent far too much time among the texts and illustrations of ancient Greece and Rome to be embarrassed by depictions of male nudity. But it seemed to her that this artist had no small talent for anatomy. The human form obviously intrigued him, judging by the number of small sketches of a hand, a foot, an ankle, the turn of a thigh. But the faces too were full of life, depicted in just a few lines, and yet an entire moment was captured in the tilt of a head, the slant of an eye.
“In general, when my work is not in plain sight, it’s not for anyone’s eyes but mine.”
Olivia hadn’t heard the door open. She looked up with a gasp, the drawings fluttering to the table, one or two sliding to the floor.
The master of
“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to pry,” Olivia said, flushing. “The drawer wasn’t locked or anything.”
“No, because my people don’t make a habit of invading my privacy,” he said curtly. He was carrying two wooden buckets from which steam curled upward.
He came into the cabin, kicking the door closed behind him, and set the pails down. “You wished to wash your hair, so I’ve brought you hot water.”
“Thank you.” Olivia pushed her hands through her hair. She was embarrassed at being caught prying and didn’t know how to put it right. “I… I’m truly sorry for looking in your drawers. I… I just had this overpowering urge to find out about you… things about you. It didn’t feel like spying.”
He regarded her still with an air of displeasure. “You could ask me anything you wish, or did that not occur to you?”
“You weren’t here.” She shrugged and offered an apologetic smile. “And when I have asked you questions, you haven’t exactly been forthc-coming.”
“So you simply followed an impulse.”
Olivia nodded, a puzzled little frown drawing her thick black brows together. “I seem to be doing it rather a lot at the moment, like jumping onto that galleon. I wouldn’t have said I was impulsive. Phoebe’s the impulsive one of the three of us.”
“Three of you?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow.
“Phoebe, Portia, and me. We’re all related to one another but in rather roundabout ways. We’re best friends,” she added, reflecting that Anthony couldn’t possibly be interested in the ramifications of their complicated threesome. Simple friendship was easy enough to understand.
It seemed she was right, because he didn’t press for more detail. He turned to open a cupboard in the bulwark. “So, do you like my drawings?”
“They’re very accomplished,” Olivia said hesitantly, still embarrassed.
“And the subjects?” he inquired, turning with an armful of towels. “What do you think of my subject matter?”
He was definitely mocking her now; there was no disguising the slight sardonic tilt to his mouth, the ironic gleam in his eye.
“I’ve noticed that anatomy is a frequent favorite with artists and draftsmen,” Olivia said, meeting his gaze, refusing to be put out of countenance. “I’m very familiar with the Renaissance artists, and I don’t expect to see fig leaves, if that’s what you mean.”
He laughed, and the unpleasantness left his expression. “Of course, scholars are inclined to be less squeamish about naked truths than those who sit at home and sew fine seams.”
“I c-can’t sew,” Olivia confided.
“Oddly enough, I didn’t imagine you could.” He set the towels on the table and reached beneath the bed, pulling out a round wooden tub. “There’s not enough hot fresh water for you to bathe properly, but if you kneel here, I’ll wash your hair for you. Then I must dress the wound at the back of your leg.”
Olivia hesitated. “Why’s my leg bandaged?”
“It was the worst of your hurts.” He knelt beside the tub, crooking a finger at her. “It’s a long gash that had picked up a quantity of dirt and pieces of gravel on your slide down the cliff. I was obliged to stitch it, which is why it probably feels rather tight.”
Olivia touched the bandage through the folds of the nightshirt. It was very high up on her thigh. “I can manage to tend to myself now,” she said. “And I c-can wash my own hair.”
“You need to be careful of the bruise on the back of your head. It’ll be easier if I do it, because I know where it is,” he responded calmly. “Besides, Adam will be bringing dinner soon and I for one am very sharp-set. So come.”
He unwrapped a cake of soap from one of the towels. “Verbena,” he told her. “I’ll lay odds you thought a pirate’s soap was made of pig’s fat and woodash.”
Olivia couldn’t help laughing. “I suppose I did. But I don’t think you’re a proper pirate. You’re not bloodthirsty enough and you laugh too much. Pirates have black curling beards and they carry cutlasses in their teeth. Oh, and they drink a lot of rum,” she added.
“I for one prefer a decent claret and a good cognac,” Anthony said solemnly, shaking out a towel. “And I am a passable coiffeur, not to mention lady’s maid, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
There seemed nothing for it. Olivia knelt beside the tub, the folds of the nightshirt billowing around her. Anthony draped a towel around her shoulders and scooped her hair off her neck, tossing it forward as she bent her head.
The hot water felt wonderful, but not as wonderful as his fingers moving gently across her scalp, cleverly avoiding the soreness that she had felt when she’d turned her head on the pillow. The scent of verbena filled the cabin, and the hot water washed through the thick black fall of her hair. Olivia’s eyelids drooped and she drifted in the warm scented hinterland behind her eyes.
“There, that should do it.” The sound of his voice was shocking in the silence. Olivia lifted her head hurriedly and water dripped down the back of her neck, soaking the collar of her makeshift gown.
“That wasn’t very clever,” Anthony observed, gathering her hair between his hands and wringing it out over the tub. He wrapped a towel turban-style around her head. “You’d better change that… that… what would you call what you’re wearing?” He regarded her quizzically.
“Your nightshirt,” Olivia responded, standing up slowly. “Maybe Adam’s finished my c-clothes now.”
“He’s busy cooking, but I have dozens of nightshirts. My aunt embroiders them for me. She has the strangest notions about me.” He opened the cupboard in the bulwark.
“You have an aunt?” Olivia exclaimed. “Pirates can’t have aunts.”
“Well, as far as I know, I wasn’t the result of immaculate conception, so this particular pirate does have one… Ah, this one should do. As I recall, it has some particularly exquisite lacework on the sleeves.” He shook out another of the voluminous garments.
“And an emerald sash, I think, since we’re dressing for dinner.” He selected a rich green silk cravat. “You won’t need one for your hair this evening.”
“No,” Olivia agreed faintly. She was still trying to equate embroidering aunts with
“Not far away,” he responded casually and uninformatively, tossing the fresh nightshirt and sash onto the bed. He opened another cupboard and took out a wooden casket. Then he turned back to Olivia with a speculative air. “Do you wish to lie on the bed while I dress your leg? Or would you rather stand? I can manage either way.”
Again Olivia felt the bandage. “I’m sure I can do it myself.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I am something of a physician, Olivia, as I told you. There’s no need to be shy.”
“How c-can you say that? It’s one thing when I’m not really c-conscious, but it’s different now.”
“I don’t see why. I’m wearing my physician’s hat. I grant you it would be different… very different… if I were not. But I promise you I have no trouble separating any, shall we say, masculine responses to your body, from the purely practical and medicinal.”
“Would you have… would you have a masculine response, then?” Olivia blurted the question, astonished at herself, but only on some distant plane.
Anthony smiled slowly. “Oh, yes,” he said softly. “Most definitely. But as I said, that’s not the point at this moment.”
He set the casket on the table and flipped open the lid. Then he hooked a stool over with his foot and sat down, reaching for Olivia’s hands. He drew her towards him and with his hands at her waist turned her so her back was to him.
“Now, why don’t you lift your skirts as high as you feel comfortable. I just need to be able to unfasten the bandage.”
“But it’s right at the top of my leg,” Olivia protested faintly, gathering her skirts in both hands and lifting them slowly. The breeze from the window was cool against the backs of her legs. “Is that high enough?”
“Just a little higher.”
“But… but you’ll see my bottom!”
“And it’s quite the prettiest little bottom,” he said, laughing. “No… no, don’t run away. I beg your pardon, but it was irresistible. I promise I won’t see anything I shouldn’t, but I do need to get at the pin.”
“
Anthony unfastened the pin that held the bandage closed and unwound it. His fingers brushed against her skin, reminding her vividly of the strange dream time, but now she was in full possession of her senses, and vibrantly aware. He touched the inside of her thigh and she jumped as if stung.
“Be still,” he said calmly, steadying her with his hands on her hips. “I can’t do this without touching you. I’m going to clean the wound now, and then dress it with salve and rebandage it. It’s healing nicely and tomorrow I should be able to take out the stitches.”
Olivia gritted her teeth and tried to pretend she was somewhere else, doing something quite other than standing here holding up her skirts for the intimate attentions of a male stranger.
But it was over at last. He wound the bandage once more tightly around her thigh and refastened the pin. “There, you can let your skirts down now.”
Olivia let the material slip back to her ankles and stepped away from his knees. She pulled the towel off her head, and her wet hair fell to the soaked clinging collar of the nightshirt. She shivered.
“Why don’t you wash and change now?” Anthony suggested. “There’s plenty of hot water left in the other pail. Just leave a little for me when you’re finished.” He strolled to the chart table as he spoke, adding cheerfully, “Piracy is devilishly dirty work.”
Olivia eyed the tub, the curl of steam from the pail. She ran a hand inside the sodden collar of her makeshift gown. She looked at the fresh clean raiment, the brilliant emerald sash. “I’ll be about fifteen minutes,” she said.
“Take your time.” He was bending over the chart table, the sextant in his hand.
“I’ll call when I’m finished,” she offered.
“Oh, I expect I’ll know when you’re finished,” he observed amiably.
Olivia swallowed. “Are you staying in here, then?”
“Of course. But I’ll keep my back to you. I give you my word of honor.” There was a laugh in his voice.
“Honor?” Olivia exclaimed. “You’re not a man of honor. You’re a pirate and a thief, and you draw people’s naked bodies when they’re not aware of it, and I’m sure you’ve killed people as well. You’re not a gentleman. How c-could you possibly talk of honor?”
“But have you never heard of honor among thieves, Olivia?” he inquired without turning from the chart table. The laugh remained in his voice. “I promise you, you’ll see only my back. But do, I beg you, make haste. Otherwise the water will be cold by the time it’s my turn, and I’m in sore need of soap and fresh clothes.”
