Free Mystic Memories by Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz Page B

his head, cascading downward to the lower reaches of his body. He stifled the inappropriate sensations that churned like a whirlpool in the pit of his belly.
    Grinning, Keoni answered her question. “Yes, ma’am. You said it perfectly. You must have a natural ear for language.”
    “Only Spanish and French,” admitted the woman with too much warmth in her eyes for the Kanaka to suit Blake. His friend set the platter on the bed, then prepared the captain’s table with a clean linen cloth and candles before placing the food in the center. “I have visited the islands, though, so I’m familiar with the pronunciation of your words.”
    Startled to hear this latest bit of information about the mysterious widow, Blake was about to speak up when Keoni offered, “I will teach you my native tongue, if you are interested.”
    “That’s very nice of you,” she responded as the cook lit the candles. “I wouldn’t mind a few lessons while I’m here.”
    “Keoni, you have hungry sailors topside,” reminded Blake, interrupting the courtship before he could be asked to perform vows between them as captain of the ship. When it came to women, Keoni charmed, wooed, and bedded more members of the fairer sex than any sailor on the Seven Seas. Not that Blake was envious of his Island brother. That is, not until now.
    “Aye-aye, Captain.” His friend turned back to Mrs. Edwards. “Let me know when you want that lesson.”
    “I will, Keoni. And thank you again.”
    “My pleasure, ma’am.”
    “I said that will be all.” Blake cocked one brow in a silent reprimand. And yet he was certain he saw a smirk on the cook’s face when the man turned to leave.
    As the door closed, he stepped to a chair and pulled it out for his guest. She looked at him quizzically. “Are you joining me after all?”
    “With your permission.”
    “You already had it.”
    “Very well, then . . .” He gestured for her to sit down. She glanced from the seat to him, then back again. “It won’t bite.”
    “I know.” As if unaccustomed to this common courtesy, she silently lowered herself onto the chair, then folded her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl waiting for her lessons. He, on the other hand, had thoughts no schoolmaster should be considering. Her short dark hair drew his attention to the delicate nape of her neck. His hands tightened around the finials of the chair, resisting the urge to touch her, to run his finger down the slender column of her neck. He imagined leaning down and pressing his lips to her skin, tasting her, teasing her.
    But he would not want to stop there, he knew. To think otherwise was to be a fool. The fantasy of her in his arms—and bed—was far too tempting. He was deceiving himself with these fantasies.
    Pulling himself away from her, he went to the cupboard where he kept a few bottles of good wine and stronger spirits.
    “May I offer you a glass of wine?” he asked.
    “What? Oh . . . yes, wine would be nice.”
    Fending off his inner demons, he swallowed once to loosen the tightness in his throat. Surely it was the effect of the salt water he had swallowed. Yes, that must be the cause. And his fevered blood was also from exposure to the elements. He was fighting off a slight case of the cold. Nothing more.
    “Will Keoni bring some plates and forks?” she asked as he filled two glasses. “Or do we eat with our fingers?”
    “We are not barbarians.” Reluctant to risk the slightest touch of warmth from her fingers, he chose not to hand her the drink but placed it on the table in front of her. “And no, Keoni is not bringing anything. My personal service is already stored here.”
    He went to another cupboard to retrieve plates.
    Cara slowly sipped the wine, studying the captain over the rim of the glass. When she was snooping around the cabin earlier, she’d seen the dishes but couldn’t let on that she knew about them. She had learned little else about Blake Masters during her search. Writing papers had