Disclaimer: Any character or places from Peter Pan belong to J.M. Barrie and his heirs. However we do own our Ocs, please do not take them.
Author's Note: And we're here at the chapter three! Please read, enjoy and be sure to leave a review!
James Hook blinked blearily awake. He was lying on his back, staring up at the crimson canopy of his grand four-poster. Muted feminine voices reached his ears and he squeezed his eyes shut with a groan. They were still here. More importantly, it had not been a dream or a hallucination. They were real and they were in his cabin.
"How did I get here?"
The women, sitting at his table and picking at the food set before them, looked up.
"He's awake!"
Rose nodded as she took another bite of the steaming lobster.
His bo'sun toddled over to where Hook still lay on his bed, tsking, "Now, Captain, you gave the ladies quite a fright when you fell over like that. They had to call Mister Starkey and I in to carry you to your bed."
"How considerate of them."
"Cap'n, you don't look at all yourself. Should I get you something? Something to eat to get the colour back into your face?"
"Rum."
"Cap'n, I don't think that -"
"Rum."
"Aye, sir."
The bo'sun ran to fetch the bottle of rum and the captain swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up with a scowl.
"Somehow I don't think more alcohol will make things any better," Rose said to her lover, ignoring him entirely and soaking another morsel of crustacean into a bubbling vat of butter.
"Cap'n's orders, Miss," Smee answered as he hurried back with the aforementioned spirit from the liquor cabinet.
"That's not going to help," Rose stood gracefully and snatched the bottle right out of the Irishman's hand in one elegant motion. "A little more alcohol to cure hangover does work, just not like that. Would you be a dear and fetch me some gin, lemon juice, sugar, an egg and some vinegar?"
"That sounds atrocious," Abigail's nose wrinkled.
"Hair of the dog isn't supposed to taste good but it does the trick."
The bo'sun glanced back at his captain for permission to follow the witch's orders. The captain grunted and waved his hook in gracious assent and Smee trundled away, closing the cabin door softly behind him. James surveyed the women nibbling at the food spread across the table. Rose had abandoned the lobster and began tasting a baked sweet potato. Abigail had swiped the bottle of rum from Rose's hand and took a swig from it as she picked through a plate of apples baked in spiced wine.
"How long have you been falling into your cups?" Rose sipped from a crystal goblet, eyeing him over the gilded rim.
"Long enough, Miss Belchere," he said sourly. It was too much trouble to stand, he knew his limits and attempting to rise to his feet would only result in another humiliating plummet to the floor.
"Would we have anything to do with that?" Abigail took her pleasant time tasting a slice of apple, savoring the taste, full lips wrapped around the succulent fruit. Biting his tongue, breathing hard through his nose, James looked anywhere else.
"And if you did?"
"A point of pride to us both."
Any further conversation, if it could be called that, was put to an end by the return of Mr. Smee. He juggled the requested items in his arms, and would have dropped several had Rose not sprung from her seat to assist him. Hook watched the courtesy with an appraising eye. Together they cleared a space at the head of the table, his place, carefully setting down each ingredient in the order it was to be used. Slowly, his poor mind having been dulled by imbibing too much, he came to realize that beyond their preferences in bed he knew naught else about these women. Rose it seemed had a kind streak to her. Abigail meanwhile seemed to delight in provoking his ire for amusement.
"I don't seem to remember this recipe," the bo'sun commented at the witch reached for the nearest glass.
"There are many variations to hangover cures," she explained, mixing each of the liquids, carefully judging the measurements by eye. "But I've found this one worked particularly well after a long night of dancing that ended with me quite ill the following morning," the egg was cracked and the white plopped with a splash into the cure. He winced, not looking at all forward to swallowing raw egg.
"I remember that night," Abigail looked over the selections with a spark of recognition. She seemed to have a sweet tooth, reaching for a slice of fig tart before continuing to speak. "You had accepted one too many drinks from that handsome Greek soccer player. You two were getting rather frisky when-"
"Is that damned cure ready yet?"
He had heard enough of that. Though they were far from untouched by the hands of men, or women for that matter, he did not want to imagine either of them flaunting their wiles to another. The sudden flare of jealousy gave him pause and left him feeling uncomfortable.
"Actually, yes." Rose walked toward him, glass in hand and he tried not to notice how the sway of her hips made the short skirt flutter around her long, bare legs. "It's best to drink as quickly as possible, if you taste it you might not get it down."
"Worry not over that, my dear." Taking the goblet in as steady a hand as he could, he inclined his head in small thanks. She refused to return to her meal until he had drank the whole bitter concoction. "Your lover was correct, that was atrocious."
"Things that are good for us usually are," she sat herself back down, "especially of the medicinal kind."
"And how long until your medicine begins working?"
"Patience is a virtue. I suggest you not push yourself, if you have been drinking non stop for days then rest is your best hope for recovery."
"Why didn't you go into nursing?" Abigail had turned her attention to a platter of fried plantains now, having not even turned her head to his predicament.
"Because history is infinitely more interesting than reading off prescriptions all day long and cleaning up after patients. Give me books over humans any day."
"Speaking of…" Abigail finally glanced away from the food before her to look at the books lining the shelves under the expansive windows. She pushed herself to her feet and started across the cabin.
What in Lucifer's name was the wench up to now?
"You have a leather-bound copy of the First Folio?" The dark-haired witch sounded as though she would swoon.
"Of course," he sniffed, finally finding his feet with the air of the aristocracy, as though to say that anyone who did not have a copy of Shakespeare's First Folio was beneath him.
"Oh, do that monologue I like," Rose grinned over at her lover between sips of wine.
"Which one?" Abigail laughed back at her, her fingers lovingly stroking the embossed leather.
"Katherina, of course!" Rose sat back expectantly.
James almost scoffed. Requesting a monologue? It would take painfully long for the other woman to find the correct page. How dreadfully dull.
"No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc'd to give my hand, oppos'd against my heart, unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen, who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure." Abigail began at once, bending over to peruse the other books he had collected along his shelf. His forget-me-not eyes widened in surprise and he only barely stopped himself from letting his mouth fall open. "I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour; And, to be noted for a merry man, he'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage, make friends invited, and proclaim the banns; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd." Abigail feigned affront at the lord described in the monologue, grey-blue eyes sparkling with amusement as she continued, "Now must the world point at poor Katherine, and say 'Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife, if it would please him come and marry her!'"
Rose applauded appropriately and Abigail dropped an flouncing curtsy before reaching for another book.
"And Dante's Inferno!" She exclaimed in delight, flipping through the pages idly and reciting, "Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita. Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura!"
James gaped. Rose giggled at the sight of her lover, framed by the moonlight through the panes of glass of his cabin windows, caressing the old books with adoration and the fearsome pirate captain staring at her as though she were the Muse Calliope herself.
"She's such a talented actor," Rose said, preening with pride over her beloved.
"Oh hush," Abigail said, cheeks turning a charming shade of pink.
"You are!" Rose insisted before turning back to the pirate, "You know, when she did Much Ado About Nothing, the reviewers couldn't get enough of her. Said she was the wittiest Beatrice to grace the stage. They said Beatrice's wit positively sparkled in her verbal sparring with Benedict. I was so proud. And don't even get me started on her Titania. She was a force of nature."
Abigail had the grace to blush.
"She had movie producers scouting her too," Rose bragged.
"Rose," Abigail complained.
"What is a movie?"
The women looked at him.
"That's right, he doesn't know," Abigail said. "Rose, how do we explain?"
"Hell if I know."
"You know how your gramophone plays music that's been recorded onto the record?" Abigail said, pointing to where the gramophone sat in the corner, "It's like that, but a play is recorded and then projected onto a screen for people to watch."
His brow furrowed but he accepted it without question.
"Is being an actor a respectable profession in your world?"
"Depends on who you ask," Abigail laughed wryly.
"So you're an actor," he said before his eyes moved to Rose, "What are you?"
"Novelist," Rose said casually, "And grad student."
"Studying me."
"Studying you," Rose grinned.
"Oh she can go on for hours and hours about the famous James Matthew Eliott," Abigail said, coming behind Rose's chair and striking a heroic pose, "The famous baron turned brigand! Nobleman gone rogue pirate! Terrorizing the Spanish Main before vanishing without a trace through the Bermuda Triangle!" Abigail dropped into the chair next to Rose's and reached for a green apple, "She knows everything about you. In fact…" here she paused, a wicked smile spreading across her lips as she pointed at the pirate, "She probably knows more about you than you do."
"Comforting thought." He said sourly, reaching for a slice of bread.
"Somehow I doubt the good captain wants to hear his life story as told by a student," Rose sipped her wine. "Though if I'm curious about anything, it would be how he came by us to begin with. If his dreams were any different from our own."
"An excellent point," Abigail tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and bit into her apple with a crunch. "Answers must be had." The pair of them looked like some kind of pretty version of the Inquisition, only far more terrifying.
"What sort of answers do you seek?" He took a seat at the head of the table, not willing to sacrifice the image of control no matter how little he did possess at the moment. Damned drink always did take his wits, he should have known better.
"Our dreams began exactly three weeks ago, to the day." Rose turned serious, though he could not help but notice how the candle light turned her peachy skin a glowing gold. "Was it the same for you?"
"Three weeks to the day, you say? Yes, that does correlate with my own."
"And the first instance began…" the long haired witched took a moment to study his cabin. That appraising, scholarly look returned to her bright eyes. "Here, I'm sure it was here, though it was much darker in the dream."
"I don't recall much of the scenery," Abigail commented nonchalantly. But he could easily spy the smirk she was hiding behind her apple.
"Now you're the one flirting at the the worst time," her lover scolded her. But her only response was an innocent grin and a shrug of pale, bare shoulders. Really they needed to have some decency to their apparel, the men of their time must be caught in a constant state of distraction.
"And the second, which occurred two days later, was set in some kind of hot spring?"
"There are such springs on the eastern half of the island," he stated. "For all the times we have met before, it has always been in Neverland, never in your world. Why is that, do you think?"
"Could be that there is simply more magic here," hazel eyes sparkled with the pursuit of knowledge. "Compared to home, this place is just teeming with it, I felt it soon after calming down after our arrival."
"This is true," he found himself the recipient of the keen blue gaze which might have left lesser men shaking with nerves. "What sort of place is Neverland, captain?"
"Other than a hell disguised as paradise?" He growled and began to aggressively butter his bread. "Tis a world populated with magical beasts who would see me dead faster than the crow flies and mortals not much quicker than that."
"Magical beasts?" Both women leaned in closer, their interest clearly peaked. Well if he might catch their attention in some manner other than bedroom play he was willing to entertain them, perhaps it would curry to his favor later on.
"Aye, from the devil-fish in the sea to the winged sprites amongst the trees," he explained. "Tarry too closely to the water's edge and a pretty face will you sweetly sing you to your death. And only a chosen few are permitted to wander into the heart of the jungle, where the the lights flying about your head are anything but the usual fireflies."
"Mermaids?"
"Fairies?"
The excited voices, the wide eyes and barely restrained smiles told him that he had said the correct thing in describing Neverland's native fauna. Had he not known the women already, for all that he did know remained on the carnal spectrum, he might have seen them as innocents for their reactions.
"Indeed, neither if which is overly fond of me."
"But they do exist? Would be we able to see them for ourselves?" Rose leaned ever closer, Abigail gripping her shoulder tight.
"Should you stay I am sure such a meeting would eventually take place." He felt his sense slowly returning to him, his skill with turning a conversation to his own ends just within his grasp once more. At some later point in time he would have to thank the witch for brewing up her cure.
"And what mortals did you speak of?" Abigail asked.
"A tribe of Indians makes their camp on a peninsula to the far west," when his stomach no longer rolled at the mere thought of food he finally began to eat. "They are seemingly always at war with either my crew or the only other faction of humans on the island."
"And who would that be?" Rose leaned her chin on folded hands.
"Another tribe, though far more savage," he took his frustration of just thinking of his foes out on a slice of tart. "Not an adult amongst them, all orphaned boys come to Neverland so that they might never have to grow up."
"People don't grow old here?" The curly haired witch tilted her head in confusion, one spiraling lock slipping across her pale cheek.
"Tis a complicated matter better suited when I am not so hampered by drink. But no, the children fear aging and run away. Their leader steals them away from the Mainland, your world and time, and brings them here."
"Lord of the Flies," Abigail muttered under her breath. Another reference he had no clue of, but he brushed it off anyway.
"Who is their leader?" His fist clenched around the table's edge, his knuckles turning nearly as white as the cloth covering the heavy wood. If the witches noticed they gave no sign of it but somehow he managed to answer their innocent inquiry.
"A devil with a cherub's face," he growled. "Who goes about in the guise of a child and wreaks havoc as only the spawn of demons can. An imp who calls himself Peter Pan." Across the faces of the sorceresses came a curious expression. They did not seem overly horrified at the picture he painted, nor did they appear shocked at the notion of demon child terrorizing the island.
"...Peter Pan?" Abigail said slowly. The tone in her voice was incredulous, as though she could not fully comprehend what he had said.
"Is the alliteration of the name confusing you?"
"Nothing so obtuse," she sank back in her chair. She sat there, her fingers fidgeting. She hummed a melody under her breath, a dubious smile on her lips, spreading into a genuine one as she giggled to herself. James scowled and Rose leaned in to touch her lover's hand.
"Abigail?" She asked quietly. The dark-haired witch looked up, her eyes sparkling.
"Conceited?" She whispered, shaking with laughter, "Not me! It's just that I am what I am! And I'm me!"
"What are you muttering about, woman?" James demanded, frown darkening his voice.
Abigail's blue eyes shifted to him and she laughed, "I've got a crow! I'm just the cleverest fellow 'twas ever my fortune to know! I taught a trick to my shadow to stick to the tip of my toe! I've got a crow!"
The pirate turned to the auburn-haired witch, "What is she babbling about?"
Rose, on the other hand, was staring at her lover with a sudden understanding breaking across her face. "Yes! Abigail, your damned musical brain is brilliant! Of course! Peter Pan!"
"You know of him?" The pirate barely resisted curling his lip.
"We know some version of him," Rose explained, Abigail too busy giggling and staring at James - mind filled with images of the musical she knew. "A play written in 1904 is about him….and...about you, or a fantastical version of you. Captain Hook. It's no more than a fairy story, combining the legend of the Neverland and the idea of an ever-young child, played for the entertainment of families. We never thought…"
"Never thought it was real." Hook finished, forget-me-not-eyes narrowing.
"Did it all really happen?" Abigail finally was able to ask, "The crocodile and the Wendy-Lady and the skirmish on Marooner's Rock when he called you a codfish?"
"Did he really saw off my hand and force me to take up this hook?" The captain snapped icily, brandishing the claw in question. "Yes, it happened, woman. And I assure you, it was no fairy story. I suppose I am the villain of the tale? After all, no little children love me."
"No, that wasn't what..." Rose began.
"I didn't mean…" Abigail started.
He held up his hook and they subsided into silence.
"Come," he said, rising to his feet, "You must be tired from your ordeal. I will find some space for you to sleep tonight."
The women followed him obediently, clinging to each other as they stepped out onto the deck. The captain bellowed for his bo'sun and the Irishman appeared almost at once, bowing courteously to the ladies.
"Mister Smee, instruct Mister Starkey that he is to vacate his cabin at once. First Mate is to bunk with the Quartermaster until further notice."
"Aye, Captain," Smee glanced quickly at the witches, "Should I also freshen the place up if it is to serve for the ladies? In its current state, sir, I doubt it's suitable for lady-folk."
"Yes, yes, whatever you think best," Hook waved the bo'sun away. "You'll have no objections to sleeping together, I trust?"
They tightened their grips on each other.
"I thought not," Hook muttered. He gestured to the rest of the open deck and they followed him. "Present yourselves, you dogs!"
His crew assembled themselves in a haphazard clump. The women eyed them warily and the pirates eyed them back with a different kind of interest.
"Brutes," their captain announced, "these women will remain upon this ship indefinitely as my guests. You are to treat them with respect and all according courtesy."
The crewmen grumbled to themselves, whispering to each other. A couple cast scorching looks to the women - whether of lust or dislike, no one knew. One of the men stepped forward and James instantly scowled.
"One woman aboard a ship is bad enough luck," the pirate said with false bravado, "But two, Captain? We'll be cursed through the next lifetime. Cast them back into the sea where we found 'em and be done with it."
"You would do well to hold your tongue, George Scourie," Hook hissed dangerously, "My commands are not up for discussion."
"No," the man shot back, "Everyone's thinkin' it, I'm just saying it. It's not natural how they came here. Being fished out of the sea was bad enough, but look at their clothing! They're in naught but their shifts. They're some strange creatures sent to seduce us to our doom and I'll have none of it!"
He stomped toward the women, reaching for Rose. She threw up her arms as though to push him away and, though she laid no finger upon him, the pirate was thrown away from her as though a gust of wind had blasted him backwards. Crew, Captain, and women alike stared in utter shock. Scourie found his feet and his rage, his face reddening.
"Some whore's trick," he bellowed, "No gypsy magic will stop me! I'll throw you overboard myself if none of these cowards will!"
James watched, amused and bemused at the same time, as Abigail, her face gone as cold as ice, drew Rose behind her.
"Don't you dare lay a finger on us," she warned, her own hands reaching out to stop the pirate bearing down on her lover and her. The crew braced themselves for another gust of wind, but this time blue eyes crackled and a bolt of lightning arced between Abigail's hand and Scourie's chest. He shrieked in pain, falling to his knees. Blue eyes sparking, she lowered her hand and the pirate's body smoked slightly. Rose forced herself to inhale, coming to stand by her lover's side and taking her hand, half expecting to be shocked herself. But no pain came. They stood together before the shaking pirate.
"What are you?"
The question was asked from the rest of the gathered crew, as though frightened they too would be struck with lightning or strange wind.
"Witches," Abigail answered firmly. The only indication she gave of her own shock was the way she gripped Rose's hand, tight enough to be painful.
"Damned powerful ones, too," Rose added with a smirk. The crew backed away from them.
"I'd say we'd be in worse luck if they weren't staying on the ship, then," Hook said at last, "We can only pray that they be kind and generous enough to bless us with their gifts. Isn't that right, bullies?"
"Yes, Captain."
Smee and the First Mate Starkey returned from preparing the cabin and, with a courteous bow and cautious kiss to both of their hands, Jas Hook gestured the women to follow the bo'sun and first mate. They obeyed, casting hesitant glances back at where the charred Scourie still sat slumped on the deck, then fairly fled to their new cabin. Hook watched them go.
"Witches," he mused to himself, "Damned powerful ones, too."
While she somehow managed to stay calm, retaining the image of control so long as Mr. Smee and the First Mate were present, the moment they vanished and the door clicked closed, Rose began to shake. What the hell was that? She looked down at her hands, trembling and cold. A few time she wiggled her fingers, waved them, anything that might incite another reaction like on the deck but nothing happened. Did she have to be afraid for whatever magic had manifested to work? She did not like thinking about that, this whole situation had her scared enough as it was. The very air was charged with magic, she could feel the currents flowing all around her like waves in a tidal pool. Every little ebb and flow, the very motion of the air about her, she could feel it, hypersensitive to the draft coming in from under the door. Never in her life had she been so perceptive to the elements. No word would come to her lips, only quick glances and wary stares that passed between her and her girlfriend. What could possibly be said? They were on a make believe island populated with mythical creatures and somehow ended up meeting the mysterious pirate from their dreams.
Her mind was reeling as she let her summer dress slide off her body, hanging it on the back of a chair. She never wore anything under her thin dresses, the heat was just too much to bother. Her glasses were removed and set upon the small desk. The sheets were soft enough, clearly homespun and well used. She pulled them up to her chin as she curled up in the narrow bed. Somewhere, who knew how far away, their own bed with her favorite royal blue satin sheets lay empty, their home just abandoned. She wanted to go home, but she could not let herself leave, not now.
He was here. Actually right in front her, it was almost too much for one mind to comprehend. Countless hours of study, late nights, hours of crying over deadlines and nerve wracking edits to research culminating in the first comprehensive book on the enigmatic captain suddenly seemed to be rewarded. She had dedicated, literally, years of her life to studying this man and now she had gone and accidently insulted him and assaulted his crew. Though the latter deserved it, if she ever figured how to replicate that wind gust the next man to try to touch her was flying right over the railing and into the sea. Would that incite his anger again? What would she even say to him come morning? Did he expect something from them? Could he be as enraptured by their shared dreams as Abigail and she had been, were still?
Rose felt her cheeks flush with heat. Oh she wanted to, she was not a prude by any stretch of the imagination but still she shocked herself by how easily she could admit that she wanted him. She wanted to feel his kiss for real, know what it felt like to be in his arms in a place other than dreams. And she wanted to speak with him, see if his famous wit was as sharp as the accounts say, if his truly was so prized a student in his day. His reaction to their impromptu recitation of the Bard was enough to whet her appetite, she could only hope she was as curious to him as he was to her. Rose sighed, nestling deeper into the covers, waiting for Abigail to join her.
He was even more handsome than his portrait, and she could have stared at it for hours. Had stared at it for hours, for research of course. She always had a preference for blue eyes, Abigail had stunning eyes, James did too. Such a piercing gaze made her weak in the knees.
There was a an elegance about him, despite the tired condition they found him in. Danger and refinement went hand in hand, or hand in hook, with the man. He did not have to give them their own room, for all the trouble they had given him the brig might have been the first choice of some. But he had provided them with privacy and protection, not matter that they had all but laughed at the identity of his nemesis. Yet she could still see in her mind's eye the way he had first looked at them, with barely restrained wanton lust that threatened to crack his noble exterior.
James "Hook" was everything she had ever dreamed he would be, and more. But the question was, what did she do now and was she brave enough to do it?
Abigail stood at the porthole, biting down distractedly on her thumbnail as she let the sea breeze play across her skin. She barely heard Rose slide into the bed, too lost in her own thoughts.
The power that had surged through her body had been like nothing she had felt before. She was no stranger to magic. She was a witch, magic was in her blood. She could work spells with her will alone but never could she have even dreamed of commanding lightning with her hand. She rubbed her fingers together. Was the tingling in her skin just adrenaline? Or was it the remnants of the electricity that had sparked in her very flesh and exploded from her skin to their attacker? Magic didn't work like that, certainly not from the world they had come from, and she was shaken. Shaken, but exhilarated. There had been such power at her fingertips, raw and primal and electrifying. She hesitantly reached for the polished silver mirror on the rough wooden desk. A single, tiny jolt of lightning danced between her fingertip and the mirror and she bit back a gasp, pulling her hand back slightly. She clenched her fist then reached for the mirror again. This time, there was no lightning and she held the mirror up before her face.
Her blue eyes were bright, unnaturally so, and she thought she could see sparks in their depths. She sucked in a deep breath, searching the poor reflection of her face for any details. There was something about this place, this ship, this island, this sea, the very air. Something was different from back home, something that called to her, caressed her skin, and filled her with something new.
It was magic, she knew it was. There was magic in this place, more magic than she had ever felt in the mundane world. There was magic in the very air, in every breath she took, and already she could feel the changes. The lightning was just the beginning. There was so much more to explore.
And there was him. Captain Jas Hook. Oh, he was beautiful. She had thought her dreams - their dreams - had been just fantasies, fanciful creations of a lustful heart. But he was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. She had caught Rose staring at his portrait a little too long while she was supposedly studying for her thesis. And her own blue eyes had lingered over the painting. But he was only James Eliott then, Baron Heathfield, the nobleman gone rogue. Which was an interesting enough story on its own. But then she had seen him in her dreams and he was beautiful.
Seeing him standing before them on the deck, very much alive and very much real, had been almost too much. It had taken every ounce of self control not to touch him, not to reach out and press her hand to his chest to make sure.
It was probably best she had resisted. In their dreams it had taken less than a touch for him to fall upon her and take her. Gods only knew what would happen if she were to touch him now. But oh, she wanted to. She wanted to feel his warm skin beneath her fingers, to press kisses to his mouth, to wrap her legs around him and permit him within her.
In the mirror, she watched her cheeks darken and her pupils dilate. He was dangerous. He carried danger married with grace in every inch and movement of his body and her pulse quickened. He was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
She slowly put the mirror down and reached to pull her thin, summer dress over her head. Her curls fell over her shoulder. So alike to his. She wondered if his curls were as soft as hers. She cast the dress to the floor, sliding her underwear down over her wide hips and stepping idly out of them. She stood before the porthole and willed the breeze to come to her.
She had always been good with weather magic, even in the mundane world, so the cool sea-breeze obeyed her call at once. It wrapped around her body, raising delicious goosebumps on her pale skin, and her hand cupped her breast. Her other hand smoothed down the planes of her stomach, brushing against the hair between her legs. She remembered his touch on her skin. Even though it had only been in dreams, his touch was branded onto her flesh.
She wanted him to touch her. She ached for it. She needed to feel his fingers caressing her arm, taking her breast in his hand. She yearned for the cold kiss of his hook. His blue eyes had spoken of his own longing. When he had looked at them, drenched and shivering, on his deck, she had both worried and wished that he would take them right there, make them his for all his crew to see. When he had taken them into his cabin, she had seen the way he looked at them. His blue eyes scorched her from the inside out and she had forced herself not to touch him, to barely look at him, for fear her legs would part on their own accord and she would move too fast.
She hadn't studied the wayward Baron Heathfield for years, like Rose had. She didn't know his life-story backwards, or the last eight generations of his family line. She hadn't memorized his face or tracked down every trace of his studies at Eton and Oxford. No, the only way she knew him was in the carnal pleasures of their dreams. And she hungered to know him again.
She pulled her hand away from the place of her lust, steeling herself. It would be torture to stay and live with the desire to have him, looking but not touching. It would be agony to be so close and yet never close enough. But she did not want to leave. She couldn't. There was too much to explore, too much to discover and to experience.
She slid under the blanket and wrapped her arm around Rose's waist, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder.
And he had accused them of being the succubi send to torment his waking thoughts.
He was the dangerous one.