The Rogue’s Prize (12 page)

and crossed his arms over his chest,

once again causing her eyes to feast on

his toned, lean body. The black shirt he

wore accentuated his weathered skin.

His dark hair, mustache, beard, and eye

patch emphasized the reticent set of his

jaw. His hair flowed loosely about his

shoulders. The red scarf around his

forehead stood out like the blush of a

cardinal attracting a mate. For the first

time, she noticed a gold hoop in his left

ear as he dropped his head to the side to

observe her with disdain.

“Where am I?” Her voice cracked.

She hated being vulnerable, hated

herself for thinking the man slightly

handsome.

His mustached lip curled upward

as if he’d been waiting for such a cue.

He stepped away from the door.

“You’re aboard the
Striker
. Don’t

you remember?”

She turned away from him and

gazed out the spacious window to replay

the previous night’s events in her mind.

Her heart raced as bone-chilling images

proved she had much to be grateful for

where he was concerned. She averted

his gaze, hoping to hide the fear listing

her heart. Indeed, she remembered all

too well that pirates had stormed through

her cabin door. She recalled the first

time she’d set eyes upon him. She

remembered Captain Collins and that

heartless brigand, Frink, tearing at her

clothes. A tear slipped out of the corner

of her eye. Light and moist, it tickled her

skin, reminding her of being weighted

down by water. She remembered nearly

drowning. She remembered hearing her

mother’s voice. She remembered
him
.

“I remember … ,” she admitted,

“you saved me from drowning.”

“And I brought you to my cabin,” he

finished for her.

“Where’s Captain Frink? Is this his

ship?”

“Do not worry your pretty little

head about him. He’ll do you no more

harm.”

“And Mrs. Mortimer?” Fear took

hold when he did not answer. She only

vaguely

remembered

her

dearest

governess being carried out of the cabin.

What had happened to her? Had she

been passed from one man to the next

like a communal jug of rum?

He approached her slowly, sat

down on the edge of the bed and leaned

closer, making her heart flutter. “Mrs.

Mortimer?”

“Yes,” she replied. “My traveling

companion. Is she all right? Is she

alive?”

“That crafty old witch is fine. She’s

in another cabin.” He held up his hand

when she began to ask another question.

“Rest assured she is well.” He placed

his finger on her lips to silence her when

she tried to speak.

Constance brushed his finger away.

“Why are we separated? Why aren’t you

keeping us together?”

“What joy would there be in that

for me?”

She wanted to scream. The vile

man was a brute ten times crueler than

Captain Frink. “What about Captain

Collins?”

“He did not make it.”

Her heart lurched. Didn’t she have

anyone to turn to? “Lieutenant Guffald?”

He paused. “Alive.”

“You’re lying!” Something flashed

in his eyes when she mentioned the

lieutenant’s name, making her disbelieve

him.

His eye instantly narrowed. “Your

interest in the man is commendable. He

cuts quite a figure walking around in his

blue coat and shiny buttons. However,

you will not see him again.”

“What are you implying?”

He leaned closer. “Only that your

vow of innocence grows thin and I am

weary of your games.”

“Games? I assure you I am not

playing any sort of game. I am not the

depraved soul here.”

“No?” he challenged.

“Who have I killed?” she snapped.

The pirate’s eye flickered like

molten

gold,

and

then

turned

mysteriously dark. Who was this

infuriating man? If he was like that

black-hearted killer, Frink, she dared not

drop her guard.

“Being in the wrong place at the

wrong time altered your fate,” he said

matter-of-factly.

His mouth thinned, yet he remained

silent. As much as she wanted to hate

him for what he was, the morning light

opposed her notion that he was as cold

as ice. And, he had saved her life,

though she didn’t understand why.

Constance knew she could not allow that

fact to alter her view of him. It was bad

enough that the man’s scowl lent him

strange appeal. Were he any other man,

perhaps one at a pompous ball where

she could pick and choose from among

those present, she would have danced

with him a thousand dances. His

physique and stature proved he would be

incredibly agile. But she wasn’t at a

ball, and she hadn’t met him under the

best circumstances. There was no point

comparing him to men of the ton, men

with civilized standards. He was a

pirate

—

vile,

loathsome,

and

untrustworthy.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind

whispered gently.
You are here because

of him. You are alive because he would

not let you drown.
Indeed, he had saved

her life. But he’d also stripped her of her

dignity and imprisoned her in his cabin.

Her reputation was in tatters and she

hadn’t yet set foot upon England’s shore.

She could ill afford to be attracted to the

man in the way a waif feels beholden to

anyone who gives him a farthing or

morsel of food. In the midst of her

father’s financial woes, her virtue was

all she had left.

He coughed, alerting her that he

awaited her response. Embarrassed to

be sitting naked in front of a man and

eager to be rid of him, Constance

withdrew her eyes and cast them upon

the floor where black fabric laid in a

heap at his feet. She scanned the

remnants of his tattered shirt, and then

focused upon the linen material near it.

Her brows knit together. What was her

shift and night wrap doing on the floor,

stripped

into

pieces?

What

had

happened after he brought her aboard

ship? Had he torn off her clothes and

taken her against her will? She couldn’t

remember. Why couldn’t she remember?

She didn’t feel any different.

Mustering up her courage, she

asked him, “Did … did you take

advantage of me last night?”

“Would you believe me if I denied

it?” he asked.

“Tell me the truth,” she pleaded

near tears.

He laughed in spite of her distress.

“Truth? I could ask the same of you,” he

said. “You seem incapable of telling me

who you really are.”

“You’re a pirate!” she accused.

“What do you expect?” Wasn’t it

obvious she couldn’t trust him? How

could he expect her to reveal intimate

details of her life? Her head reeled with

images, sensations. “I can’t remember

anything,” she admitted. “What did you

do to me last night? Did you” — her

voice cracked — “sleep with me?”

Something wicked flashed in his

dark brown depths and her gut twisted.

He was hiding something. She held her

breath, anticipating his answer as he

dropped to his knee on the bed. She fully

expected him to admit that he’d taken her

virginity.

“You expect me to tell the truth

when you are unwilling to give me your

real name?” An unbridled smirk twisted

his lips. “That’s amusing.”

“Yes. Yes, I do expect the truth, but

it’s obvious I’m not going to get it,” she

said.

“All right then,” he sighed. Relief

flooded through her. “Aye. I slept with

you.”

A knowing glint warned her he

would do so again, if he could.

“You ruined me?” she squealed.

It couldn’t be so. Constance

searched her memories but came up

empty, finding no images, memories,

feelings, soreness, that would lead her to

believe he spoke the truth. If she had

been violated, wouldn’t that have left an

indelible mark upon her body? She’d

heard tales from the servants about a

woman’s first time. It was supposed to

be a painful experience. Unmindful of

the sheet covering her nudity, she balled

her fists and proceeded to pummel him.

The thin veil proceeded to fall to her

waist, revealing the horrible bruise

marring her breast.

He held her at arm’s length. “You

asked for the truth and I gave it,” he

stated. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me,

who did that to you?” he said, his

attention riveted on her bosom.

Constance shivered. Never before

had she been stared at so intimately or

been so affected by a man’s touch. The

pirate’s eye blazed with fury, sizzling

every inch of her flesh, contrary to his

gentle touch. The power he wielded

over her with but a look frightened, and

thrilled. Was he actually angry at the

man who’d manhandled her? There was

no need to number her woes, 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.

“Or perhaps you’re not as innocent

as you appear.”

She wanted to cosh him for his

lewd accusation. His grip was tight,

cutting off her circulation however. His

eye bore into her, blazing 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 came from a distance,

unlike the one she’d grown to fear.

There was sorrow and pain wrapped in

his voice and his nearness elicited a

desire within her to reach out and flex

her fingers over the broad expanse of his

shoulders. 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 stared hard into her eyes. 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.

’Tis a pirate’s lot to die young,

only a shell of the man he could have

become.
Was this to be his end?

The corner of his lip twitched,

jolting her from her musings. Had he

read her thoughts? There was an evident

tick 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 vowed as he leaned closer.

“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