by Kim Bowman
When, at last, his emotions settled and he trusted himself not to do anything he’d regret, Percy peered across the gig and searched the faces of his remaining crew, men who refused to leave without their captain. Ten worked the oars. As their commander, he could taste their bitter disappointment. They’d placed their lives in his hands, endured endless cruelty, followed every order he ever gave, and he’d led them to this — failure. Yet, none of their gazes accused. None seemed to care they’d wasted nearly a year of their lives for naught.
Constance coughed uncontrollably, diverting his attention. His wary eye searched out her form as she stretched to gag over the side of the boat. Salt water didn’t sit well on the stomach. The little fool. What was she doing there? He scrutinized her with increasing suspicion. In the moonlight, he could see that her coloring had slightly paled, though her body was primed for attack as her gaze darted frantically left then right, prepared to strike the first man who came near. Scantily clothed, eyes wide, she clutched her arms across her chest. That she suspected his men of foul play was obvious. But with the lives of the poor souls aboard the Octavia depending on Nelson’s Tea to win the day, her crazed stare forced home the truth. His life would be forever changed by what he’d just done, and he and his men would be the barb of her distrust.
Waves lapped against the cutter. Icy breath hovered before his men as they manned the oars. Lady Constance didn’t know how lucky she was to be alive. Lucky he’d been there to save her. Hell, he and his men were lucky to be alive.
As frightened as Constance had been and was, she’d proven to be a fighter just like her uncle. His gaze turned keenly observant. Her nightshift and wrap clung to her in tatters. Her long blonde hair lay platted against her skull, dull and lifeless, making her eyes appear larger than they really were. Without a cloak or anything else to protect her from the cold, the night air had to be chilling her to the bone. Suddenly conscious of her discomforts, Percy shifted positions, forcing one of the men closest to her to relocate to the other end of the boat. He moved to sit beside her, amid her protestations, and wrapped his arms about her. When she finally settled against him, he tilted her face up to his and noted the blue tinge developing on her lips. Odder still, her large green eyes had taken on a blank stare. Had she gone daft? Was she going into shock? For the first time in a long time, a noble stirring of humanity jolted him awake, tamping down the fiery heat her semi-clad body ignited in his loins. Disregarding his own comfort, he picked her up and set her on his lap, cradling her tiny form, absorbing her quivering spasms, resting her head against the crook of his neck so she could nuzzle closer and absorb his warmth.
His men grinned wickedly. With hearty laughter they began to bet on how quickly the woman would fall for his charms.
“Row, men!” he ordered sternly. “Leave the wilted blossom be.”
Shivering, she did indeed look and feel like a withered bloom — one, he knew, would stun the ton under different circumstances. Her oval-shaped face tendered his heart, making him wonder how long it had been since he’d had a decent woman, since he’d kissed softer lips.
What was he thinking? Lady Constance Danbury was his commander’s niece, for pity’s sake. Off limits! Yet, since the moment he’d first seen her defiantly standing with a bedwarmer held aloft over her head, he’d been inexplicably drawn to her. His gut tightened as he recalled Frink’s attempted rape. Was he just as vile in her eyes? No better than Frink? Bloody hell. Impaled with guilt, he wanted more than ever to show her what a real man could do to a willing woman.
“You’re a pirate. Not a real man.”
If she only knew.
It had been her strength of will, her refusal to give her real name or cower before him that proved she sported an unrivaled passionate nature. Though many back home questioned his appetites, he let them believe what they would in order to protect himself from the ton. But on the Striker, men were free to lead whatever life they desired. His men expected nothing less than for him to take Constance to his bed, to claim his prize as was his right as captain. Percy studied her face, knowing he would give anything to prove to her ladyship the kind of man he really was.
He frowned. Why had Constance Danbury been on board the Octavia in the first place? Was she Simon’s emissary? Whistler — Frink’s accomplice? If so, why did Frink attack her? What had been her real motive for sailing to Spain? The situation between England and Spain was tenuous at best. And if he was forced to sail back to England in close proximity to a curvaceous temptation that warranted both his distrust and honor-bound protection, what kind of assurances could he make that her chastity would remain unchecked?
Indeed, as the gig pulled up alongside the Striker and he gazed up at the hands preparing to haul them aboard, he scowled. Life had a way of hoodwinking the best. Hours ago, he’d left the Striker a first mate, only to return its captain. With his new moniker came the errant task of profiting from the passengers and crew of an ill-fated merchantman.
But, in doing his duty to Lady Constance, what would be yielded from his soul?
~~~~
In the small confines of the captain’s cabin, Constance shivered as Percy held her in his lap, massaging her stiff muscles, encouraging blood flow back into her torso. Eager for his warmth, she leaned into his touch and, with primitive longing, wrapped her stiff, cold arms around his waist.
“Why didn’t you let me die?”
“Shush. You’re safe now,” he promised.
“L-liar,” she stammered as a chill swept through her. “You’re a pirate.”
Frink’s attempted rape, the violence men were capable of, flashed before his eyes. It galled him to be linked to a man like Frink. He understood her view of him however. She’d not seen anything to convince her otherwise — yet.
He answered her honestly. “Aye. I’m a liar and a pirate.” He reached for the desk and picked up a bottle of French brandy — probably smuggled in from Portugal — on the side table. “Now drink this. It’ll warm your bones.”
She eyed him skeptically, shaking without stop as she grabbed the proffered container and greedily swallowed a large gulp of the fiery amber liquid. Her eyes brightened. Her nostrils flared. Then she coughed uncontrollably.
“Burns?” At her nod, he added, “Drink up. The burning serves to warm you from the inside out.”
“For what purpose?”
“Whatever purpose I choose,” he said.
Her green eyes narrowed and her eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll die before I succumb to the likes of you.”
“So you’ve promised.”
She drank another long swig of brandy and stared up at him, her eyes piercing into his soul. “You saved me,” she said, her voice whisper soft. “A pirate saved me.” Then, before he could reply, she heaved a dreamy sigh and collapsed into oblivion.
All for the better, he supposed.
Lifting the cask to his lips, Percy turned it over and shook the empty bottle. Damn his ill-fated luck. He looked down at his commander’s fragile relation. Fate had an indecent way of mocking him. Constance Danbury was a woman he’d be a fool to spoil. She was meant for dandies and tepid young men of gentle persuasion, not a man with secrets or vengeful ambitions.
Casting the empty cask aside, Percy lifted Constance in his arms. He laid her on Frink’s bunk — his bunk. Her body warmed beneath his fingers. Her weary face lay obscured in shadow. In the stillness of the cabin, he could hear her breathe and took great pleasure in the fact that her lungs sounded clear.
He contemplated the treasure he’d found. Simon had mentioned that The Duke of Throckmorton kept his daughter on a short leash. For that reason, he’d seen her on only one other occasion — a ball three years earlier where Nelson’s Tea had met for a secret rendezvous with the admiral. Would she recognize him?
She’d changed. His gaze trailed Constance’s pale, shapely shoulders to the dip of her waist and lower still past shapely calves to her dainty bare feet and back again. Innocent, courageous, she was a beautiful young woman, har
dly capable of surviving Frink’s wrath, but she had. A feast for a lonely man’s eyes, she was the vision of cream and honey, long strawberry blonde locks plastered to delicate cheekbones and shoulders with sparkly brine. It had been a long time since he’d seen an unspoiled woman, too long since he’d encountered perfection.
A silver locket lay against her perfectly round breasts, and he stared at the pink areolas visible from beneath the transparent veil of her torn, wet shift, eager for a taste of her hardened nipples. His hands longed to test the uncharted territory of her virginal curves. But Constance Danbury was off limits. She was Simon’s niece. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d stop thinking about the feel of her dewy skin sliding against his naked body in the throes of passion.
Restless, Percy rose from the bunk and walked over to the large mahogany desk in the center of the captain’s cabin to pull out another bottle of brandy. He poured himself two fingers of liquor and downed the amber fluid in one gulp, enjoying the warmth burning a fiery track to his stomach. Once sated, he sat in the captain’s chair, pleasured by the sight of the near naked form on display before him. Lady Constance was a beautiful vision. And though he couldn’t have her, he could stare to his heart’s content. After all, what more did he have to do other than join his men, a most unreasonable idea, given his new rank and the guest he dared not abandon in his quarters.
The Striker sailed low in the water. Packed with the Octavia’s supplies, forced to carry what was left of the Octavia’s and Frink’s crews, the added weight of his own men and two women would slow down the ship. The journey home, baring bad weather, mutinies to dissolve, would require his detailed attention. He had no time to wean this beautiful pup.
God! This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. The burden of two captive women, the care of wounded men. He should go above deck. Take charge. No, he thought pensively. He should stay where he was. He owed it to Simon to protect his niece. As a gentleman, he owed it to himself to ensure she made it home to London unscathed. But a small inner voice suggested he’d been denied any hint of happiness for far too long. Lying helplessly before him, Lady Constance was an irresistible temptation. Content to stare, he sat back and devoured her firm backside at his leisure. How long he did so, he couldn’t be sure, but she moaned, cried out, “Mama,” and then struggled against the bed linen, jarring him out of his stupor. Like a siren, she drew him back to the bunk, the one place he knew he shouldn’t, couldn’t be.
“Mama!” she said again, reaching out to grab him by the thigh.
Percy groaned as her touch sent a heated current to his groin. “It’s going to be all right. You’re safe.”
Could he guarantee her safety? He wasn’t sure as she mumbled something unintelligible and he fought to understand what was happening to her. Bloody hell. No wonder the girl was going into fits. He’d left her uncovered, her barely clad body open to his appraisal, vulnerable to the cold. He gritted his teeth, and with sensitivity he hadn’t possessed in ages, he lifted her nightshift up and over her shoulders and then discarded it on the floor at his feet. The action was sheer torture to his straining cock. The brandy had done its worst. Tempted beyond reason, he reached out a finger and traced the graceful line of her shoulder. His finger slid down her arm, waist, hip, thigh, and calf, until he reached her slender, dainty feet. Every inch of her looked like cream, felt like silk, a prized and valued commodity to a rogue of any ilk. How would she taste?
Percy’s blood thrummed through his veins. His heart beat thudded in his ears, professing his desires had been far too long ignored. For the moment, his mind screamed, Lady Constance was his and his alone. Her womanhood a bud he could lure to full bloom, if he willed it. But that wasn’t reality, and he wasn’t that drunk. Was he?
No. He was still a duke’s son, no matter how far he wandered from home, no matter what he’d done. Nothing could change where he’d come from, who he really was. Suddenly, more than ever, he wanted to reclaim his life in London, prove himself worthy of a good woman, like the one tossing and turning before him. But Celeste was dead. His home, once overseen by a virile, respectable member of the ton, now housed a dying cripple immersed in sorrow; his father, the duke, stripped of a purpose for living.
Percy closed his weary eyes and dreamed of better days, of privilege, society, uncomplicated frivolity. Picnics, carriage rides in Hyde Park along the Serpentine, jaunts along Rotten Row, operas in Convent Garden, and frequent forays to view rare artifacts discovered at the British Museum.
In his youth, he’d indulged in wicked pretentiousness. Masked the real man he’d always dreamed of becoming, the real man, he, disguised as Thomas Sexton, had become, free of constraint. He was born Percival Avery, the Marquess of Stanton, son of Rathbone Avery, Sixth Duke of Blendingham. Both Thomas Sexton, the contrived character he’d used to his benefit as a member of Nelson’s Tea, and Percival Avery, his birthright, came from different societal molds. Percy had been born into a privileged life filled with gaiety, leisure, and fashion. Thomas had been born out of revenge, into murder and mayhem. Percy wouldn’t harm a hair on the fairer sex’s head. He wouldn’t be seen cavorting with women of low virtue. Thomas, on the other hand, enjoyed plucking sensual women from his travels, taking what sexual pleasure he found when he wanted it or it was presented to him. Or at least that was the image he’d encouraged.
Torn between two worlds, Percy wondered if it was a crime to want the defenseless woman before him. A woman who crossed the boundaries he’d erected around his heart. A woman sporting the power to bind the two men he’d become into one. If he allowed it.
Tired of battling images past and present, Percy drew in a ragged breath.
Constance called out, “Mama,” again, smacking his hands as if fighting off demons from another time, another place. What could have possibly happened to torment her so? Damned if he could remember Simon mentioning Constance other than in passing. And he certainly couldn’t help her if he didn’t know how.
“You’re safe, little rose,” he whispered near her ear.
She moaned. Had she heard him in her embattled stupor? He couldn’t be sure, but a part of him hoped he’d been able to reach her, to somehow ease her inner turmoil. The thought pleased him.
He rose and ran his hands through his hair, his gaze narrowing in on the silver locket dangling from her neck. Fascinated, he lifted the trinket and opened it. Drops of water trickled out of the trinket onto her skin, the rivulets streaming across her flesh. She shivered. He examined her face and then focused on the image in the locket of a woman with similar features. Who was the woman? Her mother? Aunt? Sister, perhaps? Perplexed, he closed the silver casing then eased Constance’s body under the coverlet and rose from the bunk.
“Sleep now,” he said, turning to pace the cabin.
As captain, his men assumed Lady Constance was his. An invigorating thought. Blonde, courageous, the vixen had defied incalculable odds forced on her. Her wit, courage, and size were perfectly suited to him. Frink was dead. All hope of finding Celeste’s killer gone. Yet neither of them was out of danger. For this reason, and this reason alone, he couldn’t reveal his true identity. His charade had to continue until they reached port. But he also had to do everything in his power to make sure his men believed Constance belonged to him in every way. It was the only strategic maneuver that would keep her safe from his men — Frink’s men — from himself.
Zounds, he wasn’t so consumed with revenge that he didn’t know he was more dangerous to Constance than anyone else. Constance’s slumbering form drew him like a moth to a flickering flame. A flame he could ill afford to burn out. Aye. The solution was simple. He would return her to Simon in due course. Once in home port, the Striker would be handed over to the Admiralty office and catalogued. His men would be dispatched to their own vices, and Thomas Sexton would fade into obscurity until called for by Nelson’s Tea again. Constance would forget the part he’d played in her rescue, would be free to go on about her life. But none of the particula
rs held meaning now. He was physically exhausted after not having slept a good night’s sleep in too long a time. Frink was dead. His men would keep watch and see to it that he wasn’t disturbed.
A quick survey of the cabin revealed no other place to sleep. Dissatisfied by the thought of sleeping on the floor, he shrugged out of his wet shirt and cast off his breeches, wincing as the tight fabric brushed against the forgotten wound at his side. Testing his bloody flesh with his fingers, he returned to the desk and rummaged through it until he found some rolled bandages. He spread the wound and poured brandy in it, cringing as he untwined the gauze and wrapped the fabric around his abdomen. When his ministrations were finished, he glanced back at the bunk and then to the floor. He was in no condition or frame of mind to sleep on a hard surface. He needed a real bed, no matter that it was already occupied. The fact that he’d have to share it with Simon’s niece pricked his conscience. But the opportunity to share his body heat with someone who could reciprocate, especially if that person was a beautiful female, was irresistibly appealing.
What would Lady Constance do if she awoke and discovered him lying naked beside her? She already thought him a monster, a debaser of women. He chuckled softly. As captain, he had rights. Rights he was more than eager to demand. Damn, he also had a conscience.
Constance shivered and called out again. All thoughts of seduction gone, Percy slipped under the covers and pulled her against him. “There now. Shhh. You’re in no danger. Hold tight, little rose.”
She clung to his arms, digging her fingers into his flesh. Whatever place she’d gone to in her dreams, she wasn’t safe in her mind. He shifted her body toward him, positioning her upper leg over his. “There now. All is well. No one is going to hurt you, love. Sleep. I will keep watch. I will protect you.”
God, she felt good wrapped around him like a glove. The intimacy ignited his senses, thrummed his pulsing blood, filling his loins with undeniable hunger.
