The Pirate Prince (20 page)

“I don’t want her pity,” he grumbled, brow furrowed in thought. “The problem with Allegra is that she wants to be safe.”

“That seems natural enough.”

“Not in the sense you mean. In that regard, she’s as safe as houses, as you always say, and I think she’s finally starting to see that. I mean…” He frowned at Wallace, who was having trouble with the topgallant’s backstay. “I have no bloody idea what I mean.”

Restlessly, Lazar got up from the capstan and perused the decks as he smoked, making sure the men were looking lively at their tasks.

“Fantasies are always safer than reality,” Vicar remarked, watching him in his keen way.

“Except when they trap a healthy, desirable young woman inside herself, where nobody can hurt her! She won’t trust me.”

“How can she, at this point?”

Lazar shrugged.

Both were silent for a moment. Vicar looked up suddenly from his idle study of the planks. “I say, Lazar, are you falling in love with her?”

He stared at Vicar for a long moment. “Don’t be absurd,” he replied.

Vicar scratched his temple, gazing back at him, looking fascinated and equally bemused.

“Bloody hell.” Turning on his heel, Lazar stomped off to take over the wheel from the helmsman, desperate for any work to do.

Allegra spent the rest of the afternoon writing a letter to Aunt Isabelle, telling her not to worry herself into illness. The pirate captain who had carried her off was a wicked man, to be sure, but he would not do her any outright violence, she wrote. He could even be somewhat civilized when he chose.

She didn’t tell about how softly he could kiss or how gentle his hands could be.

Next she wrote to the matrons of the pension houses and orphanages she sponsored, with instructions to carry on without her until she could devise a way to return. As she wrote out detail after detail of who would need what, the homes to which food should be taken, which children needed checking in on, like little Tomas, whose father was a brute, and her favorite angel, little blind Constanzia, and how the DiRosas were faring after their barn had burned down, she realized with some astonishment how much of a load she had been carrying. It was another reason to resent the Devil of Antigua for having taken her away from the people who had come to rely on her. She even doubted she would be given any opportunity to send her letters, but at least she was prepared.

She took a long time at her toilette, readying herself for this dinner the captain had ordered her to attend. It was a silly thing to do for a meal that would no doubt consist of hardtack and cider, but the ritual of dressing was such a familiar part of existence, it made her feel as if there were some semblance of her old life left.

She selected a peach-colored satin Watteau, still amazed by the fact that Lazar had ordered all her personal effects from her chambers to be brought aboard his ship. He was a most thoughtful and considerate cutthroat. There was a whole storeroom on the mid-deck filled with her clothes, stuffed and smashed haphazardly because his brute men had done the hasty packing. She was happiest to have the irreplaceable mementos, such as the miniature portraits of her family, and Mama’s jewels.

Standing before the satinwood washstand in Lazar’s cabin, she brushed out her hair, endlessly mulling over his words. The mere memory of his whisper sent a shiver through her limbs.

Love me
.

What an absurd thing to say. Only he would say such a thing.

Of course, he had meant it only in the strictly physical sense, she realized. A reckless outlaw asking for gratification of his overindulged appetites.

A lost prince
, her heart whispered,
asking me to help him find his way home
.

She ignored the inner whisper with a will, carefully pinning up her hair with topaz-studded ivory combs, singing old Ascencion folk songs quietly to herself as she worked. She chose an easy coiffure, for she was not an
artiste de mode
like her Parisian maid, Josefina.

Dressing in the voluminous gown without her maid’s assistance was no easy feat, either, but at last she had front-laced her stays the best she could and arranged her creamy flounced petticoat so that it peeked out demurely at the open front of the gown. Crossing the cabin with a few light steps, she twirled a bit, joyous to feel human again. But when she checked the time on her pocket watch, she saw she had an hour to wait.

She heaved a sigh and paced the room.

How boring life at sea was, she thought. How could a man of action like the captain stand it? No wonder he was unhappy. He was wasting his life, throwing away his potential, she fretted. A man like him—strong, clever, charismatic, and bold—why, what could he not do successfully, if he put his mind to it? With all his strengths, he could make the world a better place if he tried.

Ah, but men were so foolish. She pushed away a memory of Papa.

Obviously the captain enjoyed getting himself into trouble, but why would anyone choose a life of crime, outside of everything decent and upright? Why hadn’t he done something productive with his life?

She wondered for precisely three seconds if she could reform him, then laughed at herself, declining such a foolhardy challenge. No doubt scores of women had already attempted it. She wondered how many women he had taken captive before, how many women had slept in his arms in that deliciously soft bed, been kissed that way out there on the balcony until they clung to their senses by the barest thread.

The memory of his sweet kiss evoked such an ache of longing in her that she walked hesitantly, silently to his locker and opened it, looking at his clothes. She touched a scarlet jacket hanging on a peg, running the soft material slowly between her thumb and forefinger. She caressed a striped satin waistcoat of black and dark blue, closing her eyes again, remembering the feel of him against her.

Love you? Beautiful savage, if only you could love
me, she thought wistfully.
If only I could tame you, just a little
.

But that wasn’t going to happen, and she must not for an instant deceive herself into hoping otherwise. This man was made for living dangerously and breaking hearts, she thought sternly, and she had barely mended her own in all the lonely years after Mama’s death. She never wanted to feel again that overwhelming loss and grief, which was, she knew, the only thing Lazar would ultimately give her. But oh, he knew how to make himself hard to resist.

The door creaked behind her while she was still examining his wardrobe. She froze, knowing she was caught.

The door slammed.

“Oh, for God’s sake, woman, have pity!” He groaned. “Setting off your beauty is no way to keep me at bay,
chérie
.”

She turned around in the midst of a furious blush. “I only wanted something to do.” She pointed toward the armoire. “I meant to see if you had anything that needed mending.”

He smiled as he sauntered toward her. “Just my heart.”

“What a rogue you are,” she murmured, turning away, more scarlet still.

He snatched her fichu away so quickly she did not even see his hand reach out.

“Give that back!”

“There will be no modesty on this ship.”

“Captain, I demand—”

“Ah, ah—what is my name?” He inhaled the scent of her perfume from the gauzy cloth.

She glared up at him in staunch refusal, jaw clenched. “Give it back.”

“But I’ve cut myself again,” he said with a pout. “I need a bandage.”

She folded her arms over her chest, tapping her foot. “Oh? Where?”

“My heart, I told you. You’ve cleaved it in two. It is bleeding.”

“You
are
a devil.”

He tossed the fichu at her. “So they say.”

And then he began undressing.

She gave a shocked, haughty sniff of disdain and marched toward the door, heart pounding in her effort to ignore the effortless seduction in the languid way he slid the untied cravat off his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t go out there looking like that, if I were you.”

She halted, stealing a glance over her shoulder. “Why not?”

“You’ll cause a mutiny. I’m not joking. You’d better stay here with me. Where you’ll be safe,” he added with a wicked lift of one flared brow.

She turned around, folding her arms again, the fichu still dangling from her hand. “So you may flaunt your muscles at me?”

“Precisely. Come. Help me choose what I shall wear so I might look the part of your proper escort for the evening.”

“There is nothing proper about you.”

“Indeed. Aren’t I refreshing?” he drawled.

“What is a pirate doing with a collection of fine evening clothes, anyway?” she asked suspiciously, unable to resist the temptation of his playfulness.

“Very good question, my clever captive. I often go ashore on my travels to pluck the varied fruits of the world’s cities, you might say. When I do, I prefer to be received as a gentleman.”

“And this works?”

“Never fails.”

“What cities have you been to?”

“All of them.”

“What do you do ashore?”

“Well, let’s see. I always go to the opera, of course.”

“To look at the ladies.”

He cast her a cocky half smile. “I am one of those who actually listen to the music. Shall I take you to an opera,
chérie
?”

She shook her head just to be contrary. She adored the opera, the more gut-wrenching the hero’s tragedy, the better.

“You don’t like opera, and you call yourself an Italian?” he scolded. “What do you like to do?” He reached for her hands and placed them on the top button of his waistcoat.

Her acquiescence to the task was automatic. “To argue.”

“I gathered that,” he said dryly as he watched her efficiently unbutton his waistcoat. “What do you like to argue about?”

“Oh, anything. Ideas. Politics. Religion. Philosophy. The rights of man.”

“And woman?”

She glanced up at him. There was something deliciously wicked in the way he said it.

“It is not a joke, Captain. There are those who feel ladies should be allowed a wider scope for the exercise of their faculties—a more practical education, greater opportunities to contribute to the world. Don’t you feel women deserve at least some of the rights men enjoy?”

“I have always been a great proponent of a woman’s right to erotic pleasure,” he purred, gazing down at her, eyes dancing.

She poked him in the chest, catching on at last to the delight he took in being deliberately shocking. “I was speaking of the right to own property, for instance, or the right to legal recourse against a husband who takes his role as disciplinarian too much to heart.”

She forced away a grim memory of Domenic.

“My, how frightfully high-minded you are! A true visionary. I’m afraid I’m made of baser stuff.” He sounded bored with her already.

She flushed. “I would not say I am particularly high-minded. I merely try to be aware of what is going on in the world. A new age of freedom is upon our civilization, Captain—but you would know nothing about that, would you? Absorbed as you are in your vendettas and your pleasures—”

Oh, why did she take every opportunity to insult him? she wondered as soon as the words left her lips and she saw his faint wince.

Lazar drew away from her, and she stood there, staring after him, not knowing what to say in her regret—not knowing why she even
should
regret. She watched him shrug off the waistcoat and drop it on the floor. He pulled his shirt off over his head as he walked away.

“Captain,” she began, “I didn’t mean—”

Suddenly she gasped. He whirled around quickly, hiding what she’d seen, then lowered his gaze, scowling at the floor.

“You may go now, Miss Monteverdi. The men won’t mutiny. I lied,” he muttered.

“Lazar,” she said softly, “let me see.”

He merely stood there as she walked toward him, the shirt still hanging in his grasp. Her gaze devoured the splendor of his golden skin, muscled chest and arms, his belly carved with flowing ridges.
Beautiful man
. She could scarcely believe she’d slept in his arms for the past three nights without ravishing
him
.

With a wordless growl of forbearance, Lazar turned, showing her his back. She flinched just to see it. Someone had once flogged him within what had to have been an inch of his life.

Scourged him.

Brutalized him. The crisscrossing scars had healed into a tough, leathery mesh that spanned his back in a gridiron design, a complex, miniature earthwork like those that boys made in the dirt playing war with toy soldiers.

His chin was high, his eyes wary but proud. “Are you going to swoon with revulsion?” he asked in a tone of biting irony.

“No. Does it hurt you?”

“Of course not.”

“Can I touch it?”

“You’d want to?” Still bristling, he obviously longed for a reprieve. But perhaps not entirely.

She laid one hand on his back, running her fingers up to mold against his scarred right shoulder blade. She felt the tingle low in her belly when he responded to her touch with a sound under his breath that was almost a moan.

“Who did this to you?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“‘Old Cap’n Wolfe wielded the whip,” he said with forced lightness. “But indirectly speaking, it was your father.”

She frowned. “Who is Captain Wolfe?”

“Was. The pirate king,” he said in a voice edged with razor sarcasm. “The man I once served.”

She glanced up at him, but he continued looking straight ahead. “It’s hard to imagine you serving any man.”

“Let’s just say I owed him.”

“For what?”

“No, Allegra.”

She fell silent. “This should never have happened to you,” she said sadly, tracing a long, pale furrow that cut from his shoulder on a diagonal down toward his left hip.

“It was my own stupid fault,” he growled. “I volunteered for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vicar was inspired one day to argue with the old sea dog about sparing some prisoners whose families had no money for ransom. Even you, Miss Monteverdi, would not have argued with Raynor Wolfe.”