by Kim Bowman
Constance reacted instantly, stepping out of the shadows to move directly to the opposite side of the room. Her eyes never wavered from his face. “You see me,” she goaded. “Are you not pacified?”
He scrutinized her appearance like a starving man ogles sweet meat. She gazed down at herself, curious. She’d survived the Octavia, Frink’s brutal attack, nearly drowning in the hull, because of him, because of his generosity and protection. And yet she couldn’t trust him, especially when she distrusted herself in his presence. Her heartbeat quickened.
She stared back at him and for the first time saw him, not as a pirate, but as a woman sees a man. Cleanly dressed in his usual penchant for black, his body was beautifully proportioned. He wore Hessians, cut above the knee, emphasizing muscular thighs sculpted above high-rimmed boots. Laces undone, the open shirt he wore over his broad shoulders revealed an indecent amount of flesh and collarbone. He peered at her intently, causing heat to blanket her body as she recalled their intimate embrace. Against her will, her fingers ached to touch the bare skin visible at the nap of his neck. To combat her traitorous thoughts, she fisted her hands, committing to memory every angle and weathered line of his face, wondering anew what had happened to his eye. Had he lost it in battle? He was a fine-looking man, even without an eye, and she had to fight an overwhelming need to be close to him.
He cleared his throat. “Are you hungry?”
“What?” she asked, taken completely off guard.
“Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten since before the storm.”
Constance gripped the edge of the captain’s chair. “No,” she lied.
“No?” His steady gaze bore into her. “No, you’re not hungry or no, you haven’t eaten since before the storm?”
“You have my answer.”
“I’ll have cook heat up some victuals.”
“I prefer to eat with Mrs. Mortimer,” she said, hoping now would be a good time to negotiate Morty’s release.
His eyes smoldered with unruly fire. “You will do anything for that old crone, won’t you?”
Set on her goal, she wasn’t going to give up as a sensation of despair and desolation swept over her. “She’s important to me.”
“More important than your own safety?” He rounded the desk.
Her heart took flight, and she backed away from his advance.
“Just how did you expect to get to Spain in a gig when this ship could barely manage that storm?”
“You know very well why I risked it,” she explained, a knot welling in her throat. “You’ve made it plain that—”
He took another step forward. “Made what plain? Haven’t you learned by now that I would do anything to ensure your safety?”
She could no longer look him in the eye. The only one she could trust was herself, and not well enough, if her actions were any indication. The pain in her heart gnawed with unruly persistence. “Don’t ask me to trust you.”
His nostrils flared and he slammed his fist on the desk. “What do I have to do to win your trust?”
“Let me go,” she said.
He spun on his heel and released a heavy sigh. “I can’t do that. Your uncle would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
“Then, a favor,” she said. “Allow Mrs. Mortimer to stay with me.”
Anger hardened his features. He paced the floor before the desk. “Why? So the two of you can devise another way off this ship?”
“I desire her company.”
“I do not,” he vowed, his voice curt. “Putting the two of you together will only encourage you to attempt something ridiculous. The answer is no. I don’t care how much you grovel.”
“Grovel? As if—” She stopped herself, remembering a lesson Mrs. Mortimer had taught her. You win more with honey. She angled the desk chair between them. “What would help you change your mind?”
“Good God, woman! I see your impression of me will never change.”
“Why should it? You’re a pirate!”
His mouth dropped open. A growl burst from his mouth as if molten lava pressured his lungs. “Yes. I am.” A tick flexed his jaw.
Constance turned back toward the window, shaken. She had vowed not to cry in front of the rogue, and she was coming close to disgracing herself. Her body shook. She clasped her mother’s necklace between her fingers and tried desperately to keep her tears in check.
“It’s clear I’ve upset you,” he said suddenly close. “I may be a pirate, but I am not beyond kindness.”
Shock raced through her as his footsteps receded. “Where are you going?” she asked, turning around, wiping her cheek absentmindedly.
“I am not going to get Mrs. Mortimer, if that is your hope.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Then you are beyond kindness.”
He stood with his back to her. Energy waned in the room as he moved to the door and turned the key in the deafening silence. He stiffened. His hand hovered over the knob for a moment before he opened the cabin door and disappeared without another word.
Constance turned back toward the window and gazed out the large angled-panes, hugging her arms close. God help her. She had no one other than this pirate to turn to. He’d asked her to trust him. Could she? Did she dare?
~~~~
Percy stormed into the galley where Mrs. Mortimer conspired with cook to prepare a meal with supplies they’d garnered from the Octavia’s ample stores. Cook’s menu normally left much to be desired, but the man had thankfully known enough about cooking to feed the lot of them from sun-up to sun-down on meager rations.
The small, cramped galley bustled with activity as Mrs. Mortimer, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, commandeered the crew, instructing them how the food should be presented for her ladyship. Arguments arose, but she tamped them down quickly, more than once admonishing crewmen when they requested cook remove the old goat from the premises.
Percy watched the middle-aged woman interact with his men and it was no wonder why she’d followed Constance to sea. She was a mother hen. Her actions and language suggested she’d once been a woman of import, yet her overbearing nature suited pirate life.
Stepping out of the shadows, he ordered dinner for two to be served in his cabin, ignoring Mrs. Mortimer’s frown and Jacko’s uplifted brow. Percy did not care. He was tired of delaying the inevitable. It was time he discovered the source of the hold Constance had over him. Did it lie in the bond he had with her uncle, or was the spark between them something more? With Frink and all the other prisoners safely secured in the hold and London days away, he wanted to discover what kind of trouble Constance Danbury was in before releasing her.
The woman had gotten under his skin. She was running away from something. But from what? She haunted his dreams as a temptation no amount of liquor could mollify. Something had to be done. He had to get her out of his system, else she’d impede his progress on finding Celeste’s killers and his mission to avenge his sister.
Cook and Mrs. Mortimer collided, drawing him out of his blackest memories. Cook’s obscenities were quickly reprimanded, and Percy left the galley, confident the woman would ensure the meal arrived as scheduled. She was that devoted to her charge.
He stepped into the companionway, at odds with himself. Wood moaned and the ship rocked a steady sway beneath his feet. He surveyed the hall consumed with need. If he knew what was good for him, he’d go above deck. Instead, he closed the distance between himself and his cabin door and put the key in the lock.
End this! Get the girl to trust you. Protecting her and providing for her safety are your primary goals. Don’t think about her uncanny beauty, those enticing green eyes, the perfect slant of her breasts, or the unwitting charms between — Damn it, man, focus!
The lock grated loudly, a portent of the threshold he crossed. Stepping into the room, he spied Lady Constance standing against the open window, staring out to sea — again. Her windswept blonde hair fluttered about her head like sunshine radiating off a cloud.
“I find myself drawn to the sea,” he confided, his voice huskier than he intended as he drew closer to her.
Constance glanced over her shoulder, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m not,” she admitted.
“Then why sail for Spain?”
“That is the question I often find myself repeating.” She bit her lip in dismay. Pain flickered in her eyes. She seemed fragile, untouchable.
“To what result?” he asked, hoping to draw her out of her melancholy.
What legitimate reasons would compel a young woman related to Simon Danbury to travel to Spain? She had to have known the risks involved.
Stay the course. She’s untouchable. “Was the risk worth it?”
“That is none of your affair,” she snapped.
He stepped farther into the room, carefully working his way toward her. “That might be true. But you are on my ship. I committed mutiny for you. Everything about you, everything you do from this moment on carries pertinent weight on me and my men. That makes everything about you my affair.”
“You can hardly blame me for—”
“No blame imposed. But I expect gratitude.” Her pursed lips assured him she wished him to the devil. “I’m entitled to an explanation,” he said, ignoring her haughty gaze, more than ever before, wanting to kiss her downturned pert little mouth. A jolt of heat raced through him at the thought.
“You might have saved my life, but that doesn’t entitle you to anything more.”
He took a step forward, assaulted by a yearning to ease her discomfort, determined to prove he was entitled to everything and more for the sacrifices he’d made.
A knock on the door shackled him, putting his urges to rest.
“Aye,” he said. “Enter.”
The cook quickly appeared. “Dinner, sir.”
“Bring it in, Martin. Place it on the desk there.”
His gaze flicked to Constance. He studied her curiously before allowing himself a smile. He rarely smiled. Indeed, it was ridiculous that he found her panic amusing. She had every reason to doubt his sincerity. That is, unless her fears were a ruse and she had every intention of manipulating him.
No. She’s afraid, he thought, as he watched her follow the activity in the room. He tapped his mustache thoughtfully, questions riddling his mind. Was she as innocent as she appeared? What role had she played aboard the Octavia? Did she know Whistler’s identity? Was she, in fact, in league with the Fox, afraid of giving herself away?
Martin set the desk with table linens, silver, and fine china, until the center of the room gleamed by lamplight.
Constance’s eyes narrowed suspiciously when Martin left the room. “What’s the occasion?”
“A truce,” he said, spreading his arms to encompass the feast.
Clicking his boots together, he bowed and offered her a chair. She made a droll face and approached him cautiously, her mood veering sharply to anger as she took the seat he offered.
Percy leaned forward, slightly brushing her shoulder, welcoming her into his gossamer net. He poured red wine into a silver goblet, hardly missing her swift intake of breath.
“Honestly—”
“Easy now,” he said. “Let us be civil.”
“You expect me to be civil?” she asked, casting him a hostile glare.
“After I saved your life, twice, I suspect you’d be particularly encouraged to oblige.” He winked.
She harrumphed. “I don’t even know your name. That, sir, would be the start of a civil relationship.”
“All you have to do is ask.”
Her temper flared. “When have you given me the chance?”
Percy moved over to the opposite chair, sat down, and lounged before her with outstretched legs. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“Well?” she harped.
“Well… what?”
“Do you honestly enjoy playing dim-witted games, sir?”
“I’m a pirate, remember? We like to play games, especially those involving the opposite sex.” Her thunderous expression made her green eyes glow from within, and he wondered what color those eyes would take on in the throes of passion.
Constance’s chest rose and fell rapidly, drawing attention to her breasts. “Very well, then. I can see this is getting me nowhere. Would you be so kind as to tell me your name, sir?”
He clapped his hands together. “Bravo! Happy to oblige.” He hesitated long enough to watch a blush creep into her cheeks. “My name is Thomas.”
“Thomas? Would that be your surname or first name?”
“Thomas,” he paused long enough to add, “Sexton.”
Her eyes crinkled. He watched her lips form his name as she said it again, letting it roll off her tongue. “Thomas Sexton.” Her nose wrinkled. “The name does not suit.”
“Why not?” He shifted in his chair and splayed his arms wide, playing the thoroughly insulted villain.
“I suspected something like One-Eyed Jack or—” Her hand quickly covered her mouth. “I didn’t mean… It’s just… well… with your eye patch and so many of your men aptly named for their physical traits, I assumed—”
“You assumed my name must mirror the image, eh?”
Her horrified expression was too precious for words. He threw back his head and let out a peal of laughter.
“You’re not angry?” she asked disbelieving.
“For assuming the obvious? No.” Lifting a cloth to his mouth, Percy shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure all well-deserved,” she snapped, once again in control of her wits.
His gaze rose from the roasted game hen sitting on a bed of boiled potatoes to her brilliant emerald eyes sparkling in the lamplight. Resentment flickered there. She despised everything he stood for. As well she should. First impressions were crucial in his line of business. But she didn’t know him, the real man, the man who’d sailed the world and beyond on an impossible hunt for someone who pulled his puppet strings. Would she think differently if she’d met Percival Avery first? The refined gentleman, adored and sought after by the ton. He’d not met a member of the demi-monde who could resist Marquess Stanton, especially not the daughter of a duke.
Changing tactics, he asked, “Does this meal not meet with your approval, your ladyship?”
Ravenous hunger lit her eyes and she licked her lips as if she could taste the aromatic food on the tip of her tongue. Suddenly, he wondered what it would be like to have her gaze at him with passionate hunger. What it would feel like to have her tongue flick over his lips, slowly moving in to battle his own — or lower. He grew hard at the thought and quickly averted his gaze. Bloody hell, he was insatiable.
“Cook said you haven’t eaten since last night. Why?”
In the process of reaching for bread, she put her hands in her lap. “After you didn’t heed any of my requests for an audience, starving myself was the only way to gain your attention.”
“What a devious plan, starving yourself so you can look the hapless, abused prisoner when we reach port. Are you so eager to see me in chains?”
Her pained look of surprise proved he’d hit the mark. She sat back in her chair. He stuck a knife into the meat and cut a few succulent slices, placing a large portion on her plate. Steam and the enticing aroma of a perfectly roasted beast rose from the table to her nostrils. She closed her eyes and inhaled.
“Perhaps, you would enlighten me.”
That got his attention. He would love to enlighten her on many things, all mostly physical.
“Why is it so important that Mrs.—”
“If I’d wanted the old hag in here with you, I’d have locked her in here from the first,” he finished, plunking a potato unceremoniously next to the game hen on her plate.
“You are heartless!”
Undeterred, he leaned back in his chair. “Understand this, Lady Constance. You’ve come between me and something I wanted more than once. I won’t allow you to do so again.”
~~~~
Light flickered in the room as dangling lanterns wafted with the pitch and sway of the ship. Draperies attached to the ceiling over the captain’s bunk cast obsidian shadows on the mahogany walls. The wind whimpered through the open window and an occasional flash of lightning illuminated the darkness in the distance.
Sitting opposite Thomas Sexton, she suppressed a shiver. Unnerved by the storm, flustered by his nearness, but prickled with burgeoning curiosity, Constance dared not utter a sound for fear of alerting him to the emotions warring within her. How could she best this pirate? He had a penchant for reading her thoughts.
A fuse fizzled along her nerve-endings, flaring them to life as her gaze arrowed toward the bunk where she’d lost the only thing she had left to give — her virginity. If Thomas was to be believed.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Careful not to hint at the direction of her thoughts, she returned her gaze to the table. Food was the farthest thing from her mind, even though her stomach rebelled, battling loudly for her surrender. She was acutely aware of the captain’s salty scent and occasional heated glances across the desk. To her relief, he appeared to ignore her. Occasionally, he glanced up, pointed at her plate, and then focused on thrusting as much food as he possibly could into his mouth.
Constance toyed with her fork, turning it over and over between her fingers. The cold, unforgiving metal reminded her of the unbending will of the man sitting before her.
“Remember the heat between us when you’re cold and aching with want.”
The fork clanged to the table top with a resonant bang.
Instantly alert, the captain peered over the rim of his wine glass. “Too weak to feed yourself?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not hungry, after all.”
“You cannot find anything here to your liking?”
She swallowed hard. “No,” she whispered.
“What is it you desire, then?”
Thomas rose from his chair, the sound a screeching reminder she was in for another personal encounter with the irresistible pirate. His eyes gleamed wickedly, mischievously, quickening her pulse. For all his faults, he was a man who didn’t hide behind pretenses like Burton. He didn’t serve his country like Guffald. His formfitting breeches and open shirt left little to the imagination. As he drew nearer, a quiver of anticipation surged through her veins. God in heaven, Thomas Sexton was going to be the death of her yet.
