by Kim Bowman
She shifted in the bed, desperate not to find any hint that she’d been defiled. A stain revealed itself from under her leg. Her temper rose. Unmindful of the sheet covering her nudity, she balled her fists and proceeded to pummel him. The thin veil, no longer held hostage, descended to her waist, revealing the horrible bruise marring her breast.
He gripped her fists and held them at arm’s length. “You asked for the truth and I gave it. Now it’s your turn. Tell me, who put that bruise on your lovely breast?”
Constance shivered uncontrollably. Damn him. Never before had she been stared at so intimately or been so affected by a man’s touch that she’d cast all caution aside. Contrary to the pirate’s gentle touch, his mercurial black stare blazed with a heat that singed every inch of her flesh. The power he wielded over her with but a look frightened and thrilled a deeply rooted curiosity within her. Was he actually angry at the man who’d manhandled her? Did he expect her to number her woes, to admit that she’d been promised to an abusive oaf who’d sought to claim her without consent and before the wedding night? It was unseemly to be alone with a man, but Lord Burton had found a way to sequester her. And now she feared what would happen if she returned home and Burton discovered her ruination. The man was a viper who would promise her father anything. He only wanted her for her good name and what that association would do for his status in society.
“For all I know, you did this to me,” she spat. “You’ve ruined me!”
“Or perhaps you’re not as innocent as you appear.”
She wanted to cosh him over the head for his lewd accusations. His grip was tight, cutting off her circulation. His eye caught and held hers, boring into her, searing a path to her soul. He let go of her hands and reached for one of the curls draping over her shoulder, worrying the strands between his fingers.
“Your hair is the color of wheat,” he said. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen—”
His voice was thick and steady, as though it came from a distance. Sorrow and pain twined within it. His nearness elicited a desire in her to reach out and flex her fingers over the broad expanse of his shoulders. She’d lost so much. She’d nearly died. She ached to be comforted, to comfort, a matter that needed to be quickly remedied before things got out of hand.
“What would a pirate know about wheat?”
He stiffened as though struck. Part of her pitied his kind. Pirating offered no home, no gentilities to warm the heart or hearth. He would never know love, never put down roots in the earth or be able to stop running from the law. She wanted him to pay for what he’d done to her, for the agony he’d inflicted on others, and if that was a pirate’s lot then so be it. He’d ruined her plans. Spain was out of the question now. A proper marriage was out of the question. She would be forced to return to her father in disgrace, rather than with the means to salvage his reputation. She would be forced to marry Lord Burton.
“‘Tis a pirate’s lot to die young, only a shell of the man he could have become.”
Was that to be his end?
The corner of his lip twitched, jolting her from her musings. Had he read her thoughts? A tick danced in his jaw and her eyes focused on his full, moist, bearded lips. His breath was enticingly warm and sent shivers of anticipation across her skin.
“I will kill you when I get the chance,” she said, her boast tinged with desperation.
“What I’ve done has been for your own good, blossom. Now cover yourself before I get other ideas.” She followed the blazing track of his gaze. “I cannot guarantee that I will be able to maintain my good behavior.”
Moving off the bed, he strode across the room and began rummaging through a trunk, throwing assorted clothing in garish hues this way and that at his sides. Kneeling on the floor to reach into the bottom, he tossed her two pieces of corbeau colored fabric, the shade hinting between dark green, black, and death.
“These will do. Put them on.”
She caught the pieces mid-air. A pair of breeches and a muslin shirt.
“Put them on and be quick about it,” he ordered. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
“I prefer privacy.” She straightened her spine. “You will have to leave.”
He rose to his full height, balled his fists, and took a step forward. “You’ll put the clothes on or you’ll try something else on for size. A tutorial I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
His black breeches clung to his muscular frame, leaving nothing to her imagination. Constance jerked the clothes beneath the sheet and held it like a barrier between them. Satisfied she would do as he’d ordered, he walked to the mahogany desk and busied himself with papers scattered there. He did not leave.
“Turn your back, pirate!”
He murmured something under his breath about addle-patted women and took a hasty step forward. Then mid-stride, he stopped and crossed his arms over his chest. “I do believe you want me to watch, you haughty wench. Aye. It would do my heart and my rudder good to give you my dutiful attention.”
Constance realized her mistake as Mrs. Mortimer’s words echoed in her head. “A whiny woman drinks sour milk, while a soft-spoken woman eats cream.” Her stomach growled at the mere thought of food, furthering her shame.
“Do you plan to taunt me as well as starve me?”
He laughed richly. “To the one, I will do as I please. To the other, your gut will thank me soon enough.”
“The day will never come that I thank you for anything,” she said.
“Including your life?” he queried, amusement dying on his face.
Hunger pains reminded her she hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. “You saved my life. I’m grateful, but I do not need anything else from you.”
“Liar.”
As if on cue, her stomach roiled loudly.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Frowning with embarrassment, Constance reached for the shirt he’d given her and put her arms through the sleeves while keeping the sheet pulled high over her breasts. The task proved difficult, but once she learned how to use the sheet to her advantage, she was able to dress with calculated ease. When she’d tied the bodice in place at the neck, she shyly directed her gaze at the pirate. His heated expression proved that his prying eyes had never once left her person.
“It would be much easier if you stood up,” he scolded.
His vulgarity sent a shock through her system. Mrs. Mortimer had been the only other human soul ever in attendance during her toilette. It was positively scandalous that she dressed in front of this man, with or without a sheet. No gentleman he. Even so, perseverance held sway. She would rather confront the man dressed than devoid of a stitch of clothing. At least clothed, she stood to regain some measure of dignity. Drawing the odd-fitting breeches over her legs, trousers which fit loose around her waist and snugly around her hips, it grew somewhat easier to relax with a degree of modesty salvaged.
His applause erupted into the silence. “Bravo! Quite a performance.”
“You’re despicable,” she snapped.
“Despicable? I would say lucky. I’ve seen everything you have to offer, and more.”
She gasped. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. How do you expect you slept so calmly last night, little rose? Who do you think took off your wet clothes and comforted you through your feverish tremors?”
“You despicable lout!”
“Despicable louts are often comforted by naked women.”
Constance leaped off the bunk and rushed toward him, nails bared to scratch out his good eye. But he extended his long arms and his hands caught hold of her before she could do any damage. He laughed, swiveling her around in his iron-clad embrace. He then pressed his groin against her backside and whispered huskily, “I dare what I want, when I want.”
His hands braced her against his rock hard body, one splayed at her neck, the other across her stomach. Frightened by his obvious arousal, she struggled to regain her freedom.
“Resisting me
is pointless, Constance. I know what you need, and I’m more than willing to provide it. Only say the word and I will gladly show you how thrilling it is to sail with a pirate.”
“I’d die first.”
“So you’ve said and nearly done.”
“You’re a vile beast!” she railed.
“A hungry beast.” He leaned close to her ear and took the lobe between his teeth.
The touch of his lips on her skin was a delicious sensation causing the hair on her neck to stand on end. His warm breath energized her all the way to her lower extremities as his lips traced light kisses from her ear down to her shoulder. Her body reacted to his touch like a harp string vibrating from the slightest stroke of a musician’s finger. Her legs weakened, her womb constricted strangely, and the defeated moan escaping from her lips disgusted her. Encouraged, the blackguard’s tongue flicked across her neck, working back up to her ear in a circular pattern that sent sparking tendrils of delight coursing through her limbs.
“I’ll not pluck your petals unless you allow it, sweeting,” he whispered.
“Never,” she found the strength to say.
“So you say now. Mark my words — you’ll be craving what I can give you before long.”
His hands led a full assault on her senses, inching up her stomach until his fingers wrapped around both of her breasts, teasing the neglected buds into expectant peaks. Constance covered his hands with hers in an effort to remove them and sucked in a struggling breath, trying desperately to douse the engulfing fire coursing through her veins.
“Remember what a real man feels like, Constance,” he said, huskily, pressing against her. “Hard where you are soft, strong where you are weak.”
His deeply sensual voice sent a rippling awareness through her, sapping her strength. Her legs nearly buckled as he nuzzled her neck and continued the assault on her awakening body.
“Remember the heat between us when you’re cold and aching with want.”
Constance moaned as his lips traced kisses along the length of her shoulder. Never before had she felt so adrift — so alive. Her heart pounded erratically. She leaned into him, completely lost in the moment, eager to experience every kindling emotion. Desperate to taste his lips before she collapsed weakly to the floor, she turned her head. She met empty space. No sooner had she given up fighting his seduction, she found herself indelicately propped against the desk. Gathering her wits, trying to understand what had just occurred, she heard the cabin door slam shut.
Angered that she’d just betrayed herself, she ran toward the door, latched onto the knob, and threw it open to spin his head with her insults. But instead of catching the man who’d just humiliated her, she came face to face with a dirty scoundrel bearing a toothless grin, sporting eyes as round as glass beads.
“Well. Well. Look at the cat what’s jumped in my lap,” a weathered-looking pirate said.
Revolted, Constance backed into the room. With a sudden bolster of courage, she slammed the door in the jackal’s face. Then, leaning back on the portal, she berated herself for coming so close to giving in to her enemy against her own better judgment — again. Hadn’t one seduction been enough to ruin her? A dreadful shiver overtook her. She wasn’t safe. She’d been compromised. The only hope she had for rectifying her father’s downfall was making it to Spain and begging for Aunt Lydia’s help. London held no future for her now. Things as they were, Constance would rather die trying to help her father than return home in disgrace, be forced to marry Lord Burton, and spend a lifetime of misery in his household.
Yet how was it her body ignited beneath her enemy’s caress when Burton’s touch filled her with horrible misgivings? Surely the opposite should be true. Burton was a member of the ton, the pirate wasn’t. Was she doomed to end up on the streets, cast out of society like a common doxy? She couldn’t allow it to happen. She needed a plan.
First, it was imperative that she contact Mrs. Mortimer. She’d been told her childhood governess was in another cabin. But with a guard posted at her door, how would she find Morty? Her gaze scanned the captain’s cabin until a thought sparked her into motion. Ships had blueprints. Hurrying over to the captain’s desk, she pored over the various papers there, hoping to find the location of the other cabins. Once found and researched, she could locate Morty and collect her. From there, she and Mrs. Mortimer could escape using one of the gigs above deck.
Yes, it was a sound plan. Once she arrived in Spain, she would locate Aunt Lydia and use the Count of Vasquez’s connections to report the Striker’s activities, including turning in the pirate who was a threat to more than her life.
~~~~
Constance Danbury was going to be the death of him.
Percy strolled out onto the Striker’s deck and inhaled a lung’s breath of salty air, letting the stinging breeze fill his nostrils and cool his ardor. He loved the sea, had felt a kinship to it since he’d enlisted in the navy as a young man — against his father’s wishes and rules of the peerage — using a name that wouldn’t bring his father shame. It had taken years to mend the rift his rebellious act had caused in his family.
Percy wanted nothing more than to please his father, to make life right again for the old man. For many years, he’d consigned his soul to Simon Danbury, director of a secretive group of patriots bound to do anything within their power to protect England. No sacrifice had been too great. No deprivation too weighty. He’d willingly cast the mold of foppish Percival Avery in order to maintain his secret identity. The creation of his alter ego was his complete opposite in every way. Underneath his mask of disguise, nothing mattered but revenge. To members of society, publicly to his father and his many acquaintances, frivolity ruled the day. No one suspected he’d enlisted in Frink’s ranks. His acquaintances thought him away on sabbatical, venturing to unknown lands before responsibilities tied him to London and his future role as the Seventh Duke of Blendingham.
Simon had never needed to ask for his assistance on this particular mission. He was the first to comprise his crew, the first to communicate with Whistler, Nelson’s agent behind enemy lines. Though Whistler’s identity remained secret from everyone but Simon and Nelson, Percy believed the mole would be the driving force to capture Celeste’s killer. When the ill-timed message came stating that the Octavia was carrying precious cargo meant for the Fox, Frink had jumped at the chance to claim the Octavia. No one doubted the captain meant to stash the cargo for himself. Others, including Simon and himself, believed Frink meant to deliver the bounty to his benefactor, the man pulling his purse strings. Is it any wonder that Frink had tried to abscond and ruin the only thing aboard worth pilfering? Was Constance the cargo meant for the Fox? Did she have knowledge of the mole’s identity?
Damn him, he’d gone against Frink to save Lady Constance’s life and cast his mission into dangerously uncharted waters. Constance was a hindrance to his cause. Her very presence in his cabin further indicating he’d been so long without civilized companionship that he was easily blinded by desires of the flesh.
His jaw tensed as he focused his energy back to his original quest. Frink was alive. Held in chains below, the bastard provided him a way to discover the source of the captain’s fiendish byplay. Aye, while they set sail north to return Constance to her home, he would question Frink about Josiah Cane’s whereabouts and his connection to the Fox. His mouth twisted wryly. At last he had something to look forward to. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.
Steeling himself against the sway of the Striker as it cut through rough water, Percy nodded at Jacko, who appeared like clockwork at his side, dark eyebrows slanted in a frown.
“There be a storm brewing. Will you be needing your sextant, sir?”
“Aye, Jacko. We’re in for more than we bargained for, if my suspicions are correct.”
Percy lifted the mechanism to his eye and gazed at the expanse before them, relishing the breeze that tangled his unbound hair. Something twinged deep in his gut, a nagging suspicion he
couldn’t quite grasp. What were the odds that Lady Constance would be on the very ship Whistler had identified to Frink?
“Jacko?” he asked. Between them, he and Jacko had experienced enough deception that nothing came as a surprise.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Where’s Frink now?”
“In the hold, sir. We figured, if we wanted him to make it to London alive, we’d have to segregate him from the crew. Many of the Octavia’s men offered to guard him.”
Percy quirked his brow. “With good intentions, no doubt?”
“I’m sure that be the way of it, sir,” Jacko agreed with an impetuous smirk.
“Alert the guards I’ll be questioning the captain in a few hours.”
“Aye, sir. Has something happened?”
“I’ve encountered some new information,” he said, unwilling to divulge anything more at the moment.
Jacko sucked in his breath. “Tell me the girl isn’t involved, sir.”
Percy wished someone would tell him the very same thing. Lifting the sextant to eye-level, he took measurements of the horizon and then calculated their current position. They’d attacked the Octavia at the English Channel’s widest girth. The wind held steady with occasional gusts hinting a storm brewed just over the horizon. Lowering the v-shaped contraption, he pondered his choices with contempt, the futility of their situation hitting him full force. They’d be lucky if they survived.
His senses spurred to life, Percy tightened his lips into a firm line. “Trouble.”
“We’ll get her home, sir.”
“That’s not the only thing I’m worried about, Jacko.” He pointed to the horizon. “We’ll need every hand available to get past that.” The Channel had a way of whipping up sudden storms packing all of Poseidon’s fury.
