A Kiss in the Wind
By Jennifer Bray-Weber
Marisol Castellan is in trouble—again. Against her pirate father’s orders, she snuck off their ship to intercept a message meant for a rival captain, one that offers a clue to the whereabouts of her estranged brother Monte.
Pirate captain Blade Tyburn is not pleased to find the letter he’s been waiting for is missing. He’s even less pleased when he discovers the thief is a raven-haired beauty who bewitches his senses and muddles his thinking. The note gives the location of a silver-laden ship that’ll make his fortune; Blade must find it, and if that means bringing Marisol along on the voyage, so be it.
Marisol believes Monte sails on the very ship Blade is to meet and strikes a deal with the handsome rogue. If he will give her passage to her brother, she will give him the exact location he needs. And both will get more than they expected…
80,000 words
Dear Reader,
It’s hard to get excited about the month of March. The weather in this part of the world isn’t quite spring, and if it’s still cold, can make a long winter feel even longer. There are no fun holidays to look forward to except the green beer, corned beef and cabbage of St. Patrick’s Day, and the school season is at a point where the kids are starting to whine about having to wake up in the morning and go.
That’s why I’m excited about our 2012 March releases at Carina Press. The variety and excellence of the stories give us a reason to anticipate and enjoy the month of March! The rich diversity of these books promises a fantastic reading month at Carina.
Kicking off the month is mystery author Shirley Wells, returning with her popular Dylan Scott Mystery series. Joining her book Silent Witness at the beginning of March is BDSM erotic romance Forbidden Fantasies by Jodie Griffin; Christine Danse’s paranormal romance Beauty in the Beast; and a romantic steampunk gothic horror that’s like no steampunk you’ve ever read, Heart of Perdition by Selah March.
Later in the month, fans of Cindy Spencer Pape will be glad to see her return with another paranormal romance installment, Motor City Mage, while Janis Susan May returns with another creepy gothic mystery, Inheritance of Shadows. Historical romance lovers will be more than pleased with A Kiss in the Wind, Jennifer Bray-Weber’s inaugural Carina Press release.
I expect new Carina Press authors Joan Kilby, Gillian Archer and Nicole Luiken will gain faithful followings with their books: Gentlemen Prefer Nerds, an entertaining contemporary romance; Wicked Weekend, a sexy and sweet BDSM erotic romance; and Gate to Kandrith, the first of a fantasy duology that features wonderful world-building. Meanwhile, returning Carina authors Robert Appleton and Carol Stephenson do what they do best: continue to capture readers’ imaginations. Grab a copy of science-fiction space opera Alien Velocity and hot romantic suspense Her Dark Protector.
Rounding out the month, we have an entire week of releases from some of today’s hottest authors in m/m romance, as well as some newcomers to the genre. Ava March kicks off her entertaining and hot m/m historical romance trilogy with Brook Street: Thief. Look for the other two books in the trilogy, Brook Street: Fortune Hunter and Brook Street: Rogue, in April and May 2012. Erastes, who can always be counted on to deliver a compelling, well-researched historical, gives us m/m paranormal historical romance A Brush with Darkness, and science-fiction author Kim Knox makes her debut in the m/m genre with her sci-fi romance Bitter Harvest. KC Burn gives us the stunning m/m contemporary romance First Time, Forever. Joining them are new Carina Press authors Dev Bentham, with a sweet, heartfelt m/m romance, Moving in Rhythm, and Larry Benjamin with his terrific debut novel, m/m romance What Binds Us.
As you can see, March comes in like a lion but will not go out like a lamb. All month long we offer powerful stories from our talented authors. I hope you enjoy them as much as we have!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
www.twitter.com/carinapress
www.facebook.com/carinapress
Acknowledgements
It’s true. Writing is a solitary venture. But a novel doesn’t get from a budding story idea to the hands of readers without an enormous amount of support. With that, I am fortunate to have the following people in my life.
My deepest gratitude to…
…first and foremost, my husband Mark for his love and patience as I shoot for the moon.
Stacey Purcell, Melissa Ohnoutka and William Simon, aka The Usual Suspects, who have been my moral support through enough trials and tribulations to send any sane person running in the other direction. Either that or they find me entertaining enough to keep around.
…Northwest Houston RWA and the Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood for their generous encouragement and invaluable friendships.
…John Roundtree, Rhonda Morrow, Cheri Jetton, Candi Wall, Tess Grillo and Marie-Claude Bourque, all who have read my pages and survived.
…my parents and daughters whom I continuously strive to make proud.
…the incredible team at Carina Press, particularly my editor, Denise Nielsen, for believing in this adventure and the sexy pirates and spirited women who inhabit my world.
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
About the Author
Chapter One
Puerto Plata, Hispaniola, 1726
“Crazy wench. Let go!”
Marisol tightened her grip on the coarse barrel of the pistol poised a mere inch from her face. Death’s diseased aroma wafted over her with the depraved wretch’s breath. A frenzy of alarm pumped through her veins, fueling new untapped strength. “Bloody hell, I will!”
She struggled with him, unwilling to release his gun and reach for her own weapon. She pushed and pulled with the ruffian in a gruesome dance of sorts, a ballet amid the squalid dregs and wet filth of the dark alley. Their curses and grunts chased the shrouded silence back up the stone walls. No passerby would take notice, no more than they would a cheap strumpet and her jack.
Marisol slipped on the slick cobblestones and, losing her balance, brought the vile man down with her.
The pistol went off. An unforgiving percussion echoed down the alley.
He landed on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs. Sharp pain sliced through her back with the force of the fall. A moment passed, then another.
The man’s weight crushed against her. She gulped shallow, tainted breaths in the pocket of air between his shirt collar and sweaty neck. I must get free. Marisol thrashed beneath the cur. Fear urging her on, she pressed against his chest and shoved him off, rolling him to his back. She scuttled to her knees. But he didn’t move, didn’t get up to finish her off.
What have I done?
Marisol dropped the gun. Blood on her hands trickled down between shaky fingers. She stared at them, turning her hands over to see the crooked red pathways on her skin. Even in the shadows, the deep color glistened. Slowly, she curled her fingers
into fists, resting them on her knees, and looked down at the dead man before her. The blood from his chest wound filtered through his tunic, spreading down his side. Spent gunpowder still singed her nose.
Numb emotions lingered beneath her breastbone. She willed herself not to think of him as a man who might be mourned by someone who loved him, a mother, or a wife with children. Would they be waiting for him? Wondering when he would return home?
No. No pity would be spared for the likes of him, a paltry criminal. Had Alain taught her nothing about survival? Warm your rum with the blood of another, for if the bastard gets the chance, your course will be run and the devil will have you.
She would not let the compassion seize her heart. Leave that for the weak-minded.
Marisol took one quick glance around the darkened back street. She wiped the blood against her lap then reached into the dead man’s coat, searching his pockets. She pulled out a pouch containing silver coins, three of them. Marisol forced a smile. How fortunate. Something for her troubles. She stuffed the pouch into the folds of her dress.
Continuing her search, her hand grazed across paper in another pocket. She smiled again as she picked up and read the letter for which she’d been searching. The missive was cryptic but given more time she would be able to decipher it. With any luck, it would reveal the information she so desperately sought, information that could lead her to her missing brother. She would do anything to find Monte. Marisol glanced down at the corpse. Perhaps she had become too desperate. Foolish man. You really should’ve been more careful.
Urgent voices carried down the mudbrick walls. She inhaled sharply, her heart hammering inside her chest. Spanish soldiers. She needed to find a way to escape undetected. Her options were limited. She could not go back down into the alley, to be sure, not with the soldiers coming.
She scrambled to her feet and fled to the obscure darkness of a shadowy wall, feeling her way along until she came to a door. Over her shoulder, she chanced one last look at the dead man. She wished it hadn’t happened that way, but it had. ’Twas his blood or mine.
Gripping the letter tight, Marisol sent up a silent prayer that the door wouldn’t be locked. She pushed open the entry, relieved by her good fortune, and scurried inside. Pressing her back against the door, she reached down to latch it securely. She took a deep breath before looking at the letter in her dirty hand, catching sight of her dress as she did so. The smear of blood had already begun to darken, no longer red with life, as it stained the coarse wool fabric. She groaned in frustration. A change of clothing would be in order lest she be caught. Alain would be furious with her if he had to rescue her again.
A single candle sconce lit the narrow hallway. Spirited music and voices drifted from the end of the passage. Silence lay beyond the two doors on her right. She tried the first door, locked. With the second, she had better luck. Scanning the small room to ensure she found no one inside, she crossed over to the oil lamp and turned up the flame. Perfumed oils clung thick to the air. Beads and stockings hung from a dirty mirror. Two rumpled beds leaned against a wall along with several open trunks. A public house. And a seamy one, at that.
Colorful dresses with gaudy embellishments lay draped askew on the trunk lids. Marisol rummaged through the clothes, picking out what she hoped would be an inconspicuous dress. She changed quickly, selecting a blue one trimmed with a pink tucker that fitted too snug against her breasts. No time to fuss over it. She stuffed the pouch of coins and the letter into the pocket of the skirt and rolled her soiled dress up, tossing it into a corner.
She had to get out of there. Marisol couldn’t go back into the alley. Leaving through a crowded tavern was not the best idea, but what choice did she have?
She passed a laughing couple in the hall.
“Better get in there.” The woman, her arm draped across her companion’s shoulder, tilted her head back toward the noise. “The men are getting restless for company.”
“Aye, we are.” Her fellow grabbed her bottom tightly.
She laughed again, pushing past Marisol into the room behind her. “Must be the new girl.”
Marisol groaned again. This might get tricky. She stepped into the front room of the tavern. It was early evening and already rowdy men, rumming and gaming, filled the brightly lit place. Any one of them could be the potential recipient of the letter she had safely tucked away. She couldn’t rule out the few women about, sitting on laps or serving the drink either. Even the trio of musicians who played a lively tune was suspect. Heavy tobacco smoke filled her lungs and stung her eyes as she looked for the exit.
She skirted her way around the tables. Halfway through the room, a rough hand grabbed her wrist.
“Dance.” The man swayed in his seat but his hard stare was even.
“No. I don’t—”
“Dance!” The man’s drunken shout attracted the notice of several other patrons in the tavern, including that of an attractive man at a nearby table. The striking fellow eyed her with roguish intent. His eyes fixed on Marisol, he said something to the pretty woman who sat to his left, her arms spooled around his muscular biceps, and she threw her head back in a peal of laughter. Leaning forward, he placed an arm across the tabletop. He was handsome indeed, with golden hair that hung freely past the shoulders of his dark brown waistcoat, and Marisol found herself straightening her spine beneath his scrutiny.
She cursed under her breath. She did not need this sort of attention. Surely someone would recognize her.
The drunk yanked her down to level with his face. His breath fouled with the stench of alcohol and sickness. “Dance fer me, or I’ll gut ye.” He pulled back his fearnought jacket, flashing a rusted gully knife tucked under his belt.
Marisol raised her eyebrows. Had the room not been so crowded, she would have felt obliged to deal with the bilge rat, and without much effort. But she couldn’t. Not with so many watching. She didn’t know which was worse, facing Alain’s wrath for stirring up a den of soused men or humiliating herself by dancing. Oh decisions, decisions.
“Dance, whore.”
That did it. Her mind made up, Marisol grabbed the vermin’s wrist, readying to flip him out of his chair. Alain’s wrath be damned. Instead, she became distracted by a young seaman who rushed through the door and moved swiftly to the side of the blond man she had noticed watching her, bending low and whispering in his ear. Damn. Marisol’s gut coiled with instinct as her admirer’s countenance sharpened. The message must be about the dead man in the alley. If he was the one the letter was intended for…she needed to find out more about him. And now. Before he finished his ale and left.
Out of the corner of her eye she watched as he dismissed the seaman and turned to the woman, dismissing her, too. She wore a pout of disappointment as she left the table.
Marisol loosened her grip on the drunken sailor’s wrist. “If you would like for me to dance, sir, you must release me.”
He smiled, his teeth jagged and stained. “Aye, dance.” He released her wrist and sat back in his chair for the show.
Marisol snatched a glass of rum off his table, downing it in one gulp. The liquor burned a trail down her throat and she savored the smooth taste. If she had to dance, then a little jolt to her senses would help her get through the horror of it. She moved her hips, first slowly in little circles, then quicker with the beat of the music. Lifting her arms above her head, she clapped to the rhythm, twirling away from the grinning man grabbing for her. She twisted her torso and swung her elbows around. The tavern came alive with whoops and vulgar raillery. Those not inclined to watch their hands of cards clapped along.
If she could drink a couple more half pints of the liquor, well, she might be able to get through it. She reminded herself that these sots didn’t care that she couldn’t dance. She could have wallowed in pig slop and they still would want her entertainment. The damn bastards.
The drunkard stood, reaching for her again, and again she twirled away. The whirl of the room and the rowdy cro
wd smeared in her vision as she spun. With each intermittent glimpse of the blond rogue, she slowed. He was finishing off his cup. Closer and closer she moved to him. She pushed off with her foot to make another turn, but her right toe caught on her left heel. Just as she tripped forward, he rose from his chair. She crashed into his chest and the momentum knocked him backward to the floor. They both landed with a thump, Marisol sprawled on top of him. An eruption of laughter exploded in the room, and the scoundrels returned to their own vices.
Her heart stopped as she lifted herself on her palms. His eyes met with hers and they were the most beautiful shade of green she had ever seen. She struggled not to fall into them, under their hypnotic pull. Her gaze lowered to his lips that curved into a wicked grin. She swallowed hard and bit her lower lip. Dimples appeared in his whiskered cheeks.
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”
Shaking her head, she dragged her eyes back to his. “Begging your pardon.” Could those dimples get any deeper? His firm grasp tightened around her waist as he rolled her off him and onto her bottom.
“Graceful.” He laughed. “You’re not well seasoned to dance, are you?”
She tamped down the mild agitation building against him. “I was tripped,” she said flatly.
“I can see that.” He took her ankle, lifting it. Teasing her, he smirked. “Hazardous little imps.” He rubbed her ankle above her boot gently with the pad of his thumb. “Are you hurt?”
His calloused skin scratched a rough circle that sent a pleasurable sensation through her, agitating her further. She shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “Name’s Blade. Blade Tyburn.” He smiled, but did not release her ankle.
Why did that name sound familiar? A rapid search through her mind for some recognition came up empty. She returned his smile while plucking her leg from his grip. “Marisol Castellan.” Curse it. She told him her name. Her bloody real name. Damn his bedeviling dazzle.
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