Heather Graham (2 page)

She broke off with a sharp gasp. He had come close enough to raise his sword—and touch her. She still couldn’t see his face, for the brim of his hat obscured it.

She felt the blade, and shuddered. The very tip of it pricked the fabric of her gown at her waist. She stared at it, silent, then gasped when he moved it with a startling swiftness—breaking the laces of her gown. Velvet, cotton, and lace slipped apart and she was forced to step back, trying to hold the pieces together while wielding her tiny letter opener against his far greater blade.

“I will kill you!” she said again, holding tight to the fabric. She tossed back her head. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? My father is wealthy beyond your imagination! He will pay tremendous sums for my safe return. You rogue! I am incredibly wealthy. Do you know who I am? Are you daft? Can you understand English?”

She flew at him, her dagger raised, intending to strike straight for the heart. But no matter how quickly she moved, he was faster, capturing her wrist before the blade could touch him, nearly breaking it. The letter opener fell from her hand and she became acutely aware of the hard-muscled heat of the man as he held her. Then he thrust her from him. He took a step toward her. “No!” she cried out, and lunged for the letter opener. But no sooner did she grasp it than he moved his sword, flicking the tiny weapon away. The letter opener flew from her fingers and crashed against the far corner of the cabin.

Panic rising swiftly within her, Rose began to search for something to throw. The captain’s log lay upon his desk, and she threw it first. The dark pirate ducked. She found liquor bottles next. Fiery Caribbean rum went flying, then good Irish whiskey and colonial rye. With each missile hurtled at him, the pirate ducked anew, coming a stride nearer her each time. She wrenched a drawer from the captain’s desk, heaving that at him with a vengeance. Yet he advanced, and the next thing she knew, his blade was right at her throat again, and her eyes were meeting the strange glimmer of his within the haunting shadows of his executioner’s mask. He pressed the blade closer to her throat, forcing her back.

“Kill me then!” she cried. “You foolish, stupid rogue. Thrust your blade through—” she began.

But he spoke at last. In excellent English.

“Oh, madam! I do intend to thrust my blade through. And trust me, lady, I do know exactly who you are. You would pay me ransom with DeForte money, would you? Oh, lady, I think not!”

The voice! she thought swiftly. The words …

He poked his sword against her—but lightly, the touch of his weapon and the insinuation of his tone leaving her to wonder just what blade he meant. But this time the touch sent her sprawling backward. For all her efforts to escape the captain’s bunk, she had come upon it again, and now lay on her back, his sword still at her throat, her eyes locked on his.

Her mind … reeling.

The voice. She knew the voice. Knew the heated tension in it, the tenor and the cadence of it, the very rugged depths of it. But it could not be.

And still, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded fiercely. The pain was deep, stealing her breath. Searing, sweeping through her. Dear God, no. Dear God, yes, please.

His sword fell slack for a moment and he jerked off the black patch that had covered his eye, tossing it upon the foot of the bunk.

First her heart soared. Then plummeted. Indeed, it was he. Coal black hair, richly thick and wavy against the strong, rugged lines of his features. Those eyes so brazenly silver and sharp beneath the clean arches of his brows. His cheeks high and cleanly cast, his nose straight as an arrow, his mouth generous, capable of being so grim and merciless …

So damnably sensual …

Once upon a time he had been the desire of every young woman in London, noble and commoner alike. The king’s great friend, his champion in all things, rich, powerful, striking, a hero under fire, quick to laugh in better times. Fair, magnanimous, shrewd, so it had been said, yet she had never really known, for it had seemed that fate had cast them as enemies from the start.

He bowed low to her in mocking courtesy, sweeping his plumed cavalier’s hat from his head. “Why, milady! You look as if you have seen a ghost!”

A ghost, God, yes! A man she had believed dead.

The man who had taught her everything she had come to know about passion, hunger, longing, anguish … and love. For a moment the fact that he was alive sent a feeling of joy like ripples of silver sweeping through her. She had come to love him, yes. She had felt she had died a little herself when they had said that he was gone. But he was alive, before her now, and it was such an incredible wonder that she nearly shouted out loud, raced to him. She longed to touch him, feel him …

No!

No, dear Lord! It was obvious! He knew nothing of the truth, he didn’t trust her, he never had. After all this time, he still condemned her!

She felt herself trembling within. She’d never let him know how deeply she loved him! Never!

She lifted her chin. “A ghost? Indeed! One dragged up from the depths of hell!”

“Yes, indeed, lady!” he said softly. “And, Rose, you will find you have awakened a demon!”

She tried to ignore the tone of his voice, tried not to hear the fury and vengeance within it. How she despised herself at the moment, for, before God! after all that had passed, she entered into new realms of agony now. Even as he spoke, she remembered the feel of his whisper against her flesh, the touch of his powerful fingers, the warmth of him, the sweet magic of lying in his arms.

No!

She could not run to him, she would not be a fool. Surely she could not cast away all dignity and pride!

“I thought you were dead!” she said, chin high.

“I am so sorry to disappoint you,” he said huskily, those silver eyes condemning her.

“But—the Dragonslayer—”

“Well, I
was
left for dead, you see, my love.” The last was anything but an endearment. “But lucky me. I was taken up by a Spaniard with a bone to pick against Englishmen. I was worked and beaten day and night, and made to be eternally grateful for my salvation. Naturally, once I found my freedom …” He paused for a moment and added with a biting bitterness, “… and once I had disposed of the captain, I became a pirate preying upon other Spaniards.”

He had been seized by Spaniards. Beaten. Hurt. Hearing the words brought a new pain to her soul, but she could not reveal it. Not when his anger was so great against her. “This is an English vessel!” she reminded him, careful not to betray her emotions.

“Oh, yes. I know,” he said, his voice deep, husky. Then he was bending over the bunk. Close to her. So very close. His fingers wound around the carved footboard of the bunk. At her side his arm was like the steel bar of a prison door.

“But I had word that you were aboard, my love,” he said softly, the silver of his eyes cascading over her, bringing new life to her body and causing fierce shivers to dance rapidly down her spine. “Not to mention the fact that it is my own ship!”

“So what do you want?” she cried, determined to inch no farther back, to meet him coolly. Yet she was shaking, and she prayed that her voice would not give her away.

“What do I want?” He pushed up from the footboard, staring at her, dark brow arched high. His lip curled into a sardonic smile. Suddenly the silver of his blade rippled in the air once again, its tip coming to rest at the throat.

She forced herself not to move.

He leaned close again, the curve of his smile deepening.

“Indeed, what do you want?” she repeated coolly, ignoring the sword, meeting his eyes, her own narrowing.

“What do I what?” he said again, very, very softly. The blade moved with astounding accuracy, ripping open the shreds that remained of her bodice. Rose gritted her teeth, but did not flinch.

“I want—what every good pirate wants!” he assured her, leaning close once again. “Plunder, riches! Pieces of eight! Ships and cargo and hostages. And … revenge.”

The blade hovered above her. She gathered her pride and anger and shoved it aside. He smiled, dropping the blade to his side.

“You are a fool, Pierce DeForte!” she said softly, closing her bodice as best she could. “But be one, if you will. Those who betrayed you are still in England. If you weren’t such a stupid fool, you’d know that I was innocent—”

“I believed you innocent once!” he interrupted. “And I paid for that bit of stupidity!”

“You still don’t see the truth!” she cried. “Yet, even if you are a fool, I’ll not give away your secret. I’ll not tell anyone who you are.”

“How magnanimous of you!”

“Just return me to my father and—”

“Lady, you must be mad!”

“He’ll pay you! You just said that you were after plunder—”

“And revenge. The revenge is so much dearer to my heart!”

Revenge! Against her! She wanted to slap the triumph from his eyes, for he was making such a damnable mistake. He had always misjudged her! He deserved to suffer at her hands, certainly not the other way around! She stamped a foot in sudden fury. “You will let me go! You’ve no right—”

“But I do!”

His hands were suddenly upon her, drawing her close against him. And for the first time in what seemed like eons, she felt the rippling muscles within his hard, lean body, felt again the strength that had warmed her in dreams. Felt the fury and the tension, the trembling deep, deep within …

“Let me go!” she insisted.

“You know,” he said, quite politely, though his grip upon her was still fierce, “you always were headstrong. A little spitfire. Well, my love, this time, strength of will is not going to be enough. Perhaps I will let you go in time. But if and when I do, it will not be for money, but just because I have tired of my revenge.”

“You bastard!” she hissed.

He nodded. “That’s right, Lady Rose. Count on it. I will deal with you. And I will return to England and deal with the others, I promise you.”

“You cannot return to England! You fool! You will hang!”

“Truly, what difference can it make? If I were to hang for murder I did not commit or lose my head for being a pirate? And believe me, revenge is worth any risk. Why, there were times when thoughts of revenge were all that kept me alive. However, revenge will have to wait just a bit. I’ve business at hand. But fear not. I will return.”

He released her and turned, long strides taking him to the door.

“Dammit, you wretched bastard!” she called after him, panic causing her voice to rise. “You are a fool, and you are wrong! I tell you, you will let me go! You’ve no right, no right at all—”

She broke off, gasping against her will, because he had suddenly, viciously, closed the space between them. His hands were upon her, hard. He was lifting her. Suddenly she was thrown back on the bunk again, and this time he was atop her, straddled over her, staring fiercely down upon her. She twisted, writhing madly for her freedom, raising a hand in her wild determination to strike him.

But he caught her hand, and held it tight, low against the bedding. “Don’t tempt me, Rose!”

She fought the sting of tears, the trembling that filled her—and the urge to surrender. Oh, the feel of his fingers against her! She had lain awake so many nights, aching, feeling the agony of loss. Yet that touch!

She swallowed hard, bracing herself. She would not give in to him! Not when his words and heart were so bitter, not when he lived, and despised her so. Not when it was she who should be so very furious with him! She would not surrender.

Even if the wanting remained …

“Dammit, you’ve no right—” she repeated.

“You’re mistaken. I’ve every right!” he roared. His teeth clenched suddenly as he stared down at her. He reached out, and for one fleeting second, it seemed that he touched her with some tenderness, his knuckles just stroking her cheeks. Then he tightened his fingers into his palm, snatching them away. “Have you forgotten that you’re—my wife?”

She lay rigid, staring at him. “I have never been able to forget!” she returned.

“Ah, you thought that you were a widow, rich beyond all imagination, eh? Sorry, my love. I am alive.”

“Fool, bastard!” she whispered.

“Ah, but husband still!”

They both held very still for a moment, staring at each other. Then, with an oath, he pushed away from her, rising. His back was to her, his shoulders broad and taut, his back stiff, his hands clenched at his sides. He strode to the door. Rose heard it open and then slam shut.

She rolled to her side, curling herself around the stab of pain in her heart.

Yes, she was his wife.

And from the very beginning she had hated him! she told herself.

Hated him.

Loved him.

She leapt up, both panic and fury seizing her with such a force that she was determined to escape the ship, no matter what she had to do to accomplish the feat. She raced for the door, flinging herself against it, then sobbing softly because he had seen to it that it had been barricaded from the outside. He had known that she would try to escape. “God, I hate you!” she cried, slamming her hand against the wood. “I hate you, I hate you …”

Her teeth chattered. She wanted to shake him, hurt him. She wanted to wind her fingers around his throat.

He was alive. Dear God, he was alive.

And inside, she started trembling all over again. It was so incredible, so wonderful …

He wanted revenge!

He would come back. Soon, she was certain.

Until then, she had no choice. No choice at all, but to wait and pray and …

Remember.

THERE WOULD BE A
time, later in Lord Pierce DeForte’s life, when he would remember his first encounter with Mistress Rose Woodbine, the untitled but extremely wealthy daughter of the colonial merchant Ashcroft Woodbine, and realize that sometime on that day, they had all been there.

All of them. He and Anne, and all those who were to betray him.

It all began with Rose …

He had been aware, through the intelligence of numerous friends, that Ashcroft considered him to be the most worthy suitor for his daughter. But then, at the moment, almost every matron and proud father in London considered him to be one of the finest catches of the decade. He didn’t dwell on that fact or let it inflate his ego. Rather it caused him a good deal of wry amusement, for it had not been all that long ago when the ancient Norman name of DeForte might as well have been mud—not just in London, but in all of England.