Free Lord of Devil Isle by Connie Mason

drink, couldn’t sleep without dreaming of rutting her and now the wench was even stealing away his appetite for fine food. “This is no damned democracy. I decide where and when the Susan B sails. I’ll not take you to Charleston and there’s an end to it.”
    His outburst shocked them into silence. They all stared at their soup till Santorini came to clear the table. The cook muttered in Italian under his breath, obviously dismayed over how much they’d left in their bowls.
    The next course was a succulent baked sole with mango glaze. Miss Upshall forked up a healthy bite, shot Nick a mocking grin and slipped it between her luscious lips, making appreciative noises.
    “This is truly splendid, Mr. Santorini,” she said while his cook balanced the used crockery in his arms.
    “Grazie, signorina, mille grazie.” Santorini nearly turned backflips bowing and scraping his thanks. Then he hightailed it to the kitchen, which was in a separate building behind the main house. Santorini, like the rest of the servants at Whispering Hill, was overanxious to please the three women as far as Nick was concerned.
    Everyone at the dining table followed Eve’s lead, and began to relax. Even Higgs smiled and fell to his meal with relish.
    Power trickled steadily from Nick’s end of the table.Usually his word alone was enough to ensure instant obedience. His men certainly never questioned him.
    But he wasn’t on the deck of the Susan Bell. He was adrift in the shadowy realm of respectable femininity, a place he’d heretofore avoided as if it was laced with uncharted shoals. He didn’t understand the rules of engagement, but he recognized his position in a heartbeat.
    Eve Upshall had the wind of him, and he’d never catch her if he continued on this heading. A change of strategy and a course correction were definitely needed.
    He retrieved his napkin, tucked it back under his chin and decided to give the matter a think.
    Eve led the group in harmless chatter, which he easily ignored. In the candlelight, the gentle curve of her graceful neck drew his eye. Once again, she was wearing the blue muslin, the same dress she’d been wearing when he fished her from the sea. He’d noticed she avoided wearing Magdalen’s castoffs. But now the muslin was freshly laundered and starched, and the lace at her bodice led his gaze around its deep scoop.
    Her breasts were trussed up into fashionable “rising moons.” Her creamy skin glinted with the luster of satin. Respectable matron or slattern, fashion dictated they all emphasize their femininity by baring a good deal of skin from the nipples up.
    Nick wondered what it would be like to rub his cock along the valley between Eve’s delightful mounds till he spewed his seed all over them.
    He moved his napkin to his lap to hide the aching bulge in his breeches.
    If the little minx didn’t want him to ogle, why display everything but the pinks of her nipples on that narrow shelf of fabric?
    And just the thought of those strawberry buds gave him even more astoundingly tight breeches.
    And an epiphany.
    He realized immediately where respectable women enjoyed seeing and being seen. Where they delighted in flaunting themselves and their charms with reckless abandon. All through the meat course, he refined his idea, envisioning her possible countermeasures and marshaling his own forces.
    “I have a thought,” he said after he finished a remarkable slice of pork loin in silence. “I’m thinking I haven’t made any opportunity for you to become acquainted with the other ladies who live on the islands.”
    “Do you mean we should have them for tea?” Miss Smythe asked.
    Eve narrowed her eyes at him, obviously recognizing his opening gambit for what it was.
    “That’s a fine idea, Miss Smythe,” he said genially, “but I confess I’d not want to leave the gentlemen out entirely. Maybe something with card playing and music and—”
    “And dancing?” Miss Munroe leaped in just as he’d