Never Trust a Pirate (36 page)

“How’s she doing?” Luca didn’t turn his gaze away from the sea, but he expected Billy could read him like a book.

There was a long silence. “She’ll be fine,” Billy said gruffly. “Just keep away from her and she’ll get over you.”

That caught his attention, and he jerked around. “What do you mean by that?”

“What do you think I mean? The girl’s in love with you, like they all are. She’s just another one of your conquests—don’t give her another thought.”

“I’m not,” he said grimly, turning back to the ever-soothing balm of the sea. It was the calm before the storm, a time he knew well, and he was taking it in before all hell broke loose.

Billy followed his gaze. “We didn’t outrun it, did we?”

“We’ll find out. I think we’ll miss the brunt of it, and the
Maddy Rose
is tough. She can withstand a lot.”

“Like her namesake.”

Luca whirled around. “What the bloody hell are you talking about? I thought you hated her.”

“I’ve never hated her. I just thought she was bad for you. All upper crust and all that, and a liar to boot. I’ll say one thing for her—she knows how to work hard. That old witch Mrs. C. near killed her.”

But Luca was focusing on one thing. “You said you ‘thought’ she was bad for me. Past tense.”

“Ah, don’t go bothering me with your fancy English stuff. I should never have taught you to read,” Billy said genially. “You prefer me to say that I think she’s bad for you?”

“It depends on what you mean.”

“Lord, boy-o, do you realize what a mess of trouble she is? I did what you told me to do. I told her you didn’t want to see her again and you’d drop her off at the first port we come to.”

“Good.”

“You don’t look happy about it.”

“It’s for the best. She’s a grown woman. She knows better than to fall in love with a half gypsy who works for a living.”

“Her father worked for a living.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, laddie. Always yours.” Billy put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I just want you to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Luca didn’t answer. They’d ended the night at a standoff, even if she’d been curled up in his arms. They struck sparks off each other, and either or both of their lives could go up in flames. He knew what he wanted, and it didn’t include an upper-class wife and a life in London. He didn’t want her, damn it. Even if his body and something else inside him that he refused to recognize craved her.

“I’ll take first watch,” he said finally, changing the subject. “You’re as good as I am in a storm…”

“Better,” Billy said.

“Maybe,” Luca said grudgingly. “Let’s hope we don’t have a chance to prove it.”

The hold of the ship stank. It smelled of men living in close quarters, of rat shit and sour milk and grease and over everything else the strong stench of Chinese tea from previous voyages to the Orient. As the ship rolled back and forth beneath him, Rufus nestled into his spot behind the crates and decided he would never drink tea again.

They’d been out at sea for more than two days now, something he’d never expected. The cargo had been bound for Plymouth, not elsewhere, and yet that gypsy trash hadn’t stayed long enough to have it unloaded before taking off again, and he should have been out for less than a day, just long enough for Rufus to finally finish what he’d started.

Rufus would have been astonished at his luck in being able to sneak aboard without being noticed, but he didn’t consider such things luck. There had been signs all along—this was his path, his destiny. To wipe any trace of Eustace Russell and his spawn off the face of this earth, and it had been… not a mistake, exactly. He didn’t
make mistakes. But a miscalculation, a failure to understand his own importance in the scheme of things. Bringing down Madeleine Russell hadn’t been a job for hired help, and the corpses of Parsons and the killer he’d hired were testament to that.

No, it had always been Rufus’s lot in life to finish this, and he seized the opportunity as the gift and the duty that it was.

He just wished it hadn’t required him to go to sea.

Really, there was no way a man like him should be trapped in the bulkhead of a clipper ship, feeling every dip and sway of the waves. He’d been sick at first, and the smell of that only added to the odors that surrounded him, even though he’d changed position several times to distance himself from the contents of his stomach. It was undignified but necessary, and he accepted it. The good news was that they couldn’t possibly be at sea for long—they hadn’t the supplies laid in, and he would escape the moment they reached land.

The bad news was they wouldn’t be at sea for long, and he couldn’t afford to wait. Madeleine Russell was going over the side of the boat, never to be seen again, and he would return to his hiding place until they landed, with no one the wiser.

He might have called it luck that he’d discovered in time where Morgan had taken her, but again, he knew this was simply one more sign that his path was true. That hulking idiot had locked her in the bathing room and taken the key! It would have been the perfect time to finish this—everyone was preparing for an upcoming storm. He’d heard the crew discussing it—their quarters weren’t far from his hiding place—and he only hoped the captain would have the sense to bring them back in before it hit. In the meantime, though, no one would notice another sailor, albeit one with a slight limp, and the bundle he tossed over the side of the ship.

It had been easy to steal clothes, though they stank as well, making him shudder in disgust. He’d found a canvas bag large enough that he could stuff the girl inside if he were forced to dump her anywhere
near witnesses, but he was hoping it would be easier than that. If the captain would just allow her to walk the decks for a bit, to get some fresh air, it could be child’s play.

If the storm hit, he’d adapt. It would cover her death admirably, and no one would think to look beyond the simple tragedy of it. That is, if anyone considered it a tragedy. The gypsy didn’t seem to have any use for her, for all that he spent the night shagging the hell out of her. The first mate was carrying out his orders, and he was a hard man.

It was easy enough to slip around the deck of the ship once the sun set. He looked like everyone else, with his cap pulled low about his ears. It had been a risk, creeping out to see if he could reach her, and he’d almost been caught. He was either going to have to get the key from Quarrells, that was the man’s name, or figure out a reason for the captain to free her.

He wasn’t worried. Things worked out as they were meant to, and he knew it was his task to kill Madeleine Russell and her sisters. He’d been… misguided to think other people might do it. It was for him and him alone.

The opportunity would present itself. All he needed to do was watch and listen. And wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY

B
ILLY HAD BROUGHT HER
food, and Maddy had resisted the impulse to throw it at his head. There’d been a piece of rope left behind after someone cleaned the room and she’d wrapped it around her waist so she wouldn’t feel as if she were in her nightdress. She didn’t cry, she didn’t rage. There was something in the air, a feeling of tension, a sense of danger that she couldn’t explain, couldn’t understand. It must be the storm that was coming—the very thought of it made her ill with fear. And yet… it seemed as if it was something else.

It didn’t matter. If she were dead from the storm, that something else would probably cease to exist as well. The main thing she needed to do was get through it as calmly as possible. Which right now seemed unlikely.

She heard a quiet rapping on the door, but she stayed where she was, seated by the window watching the now choppy sea. “Yes?” she called out.

“It’s Jones, miss. One of the kitchen hands. Just wanted to see if you needed anything else.”

Jones must be from Wales, she thought absently. His accent sounded odd, and Jones was a Welsh name, wasn’t it? “Get me a
bottle of brandy so I can ride out this storm unconscious,” she said flippantly.

“Yes, miss. Can you unlock the door?”

She laughed without humor. “Do you think I’d be spending my time stuck in this tiny cabin if I had a key? Your Mr. Quarrells has locked me in. If you want to bring me something you’ll need to get the key from him.”

There was no answer. How very odd. “Mr. Jones?” she called out. Still silence. He’d probably gone in search of Mr. Quarrells, who would promptly tell him to mind his own business.

But she didn’t think so. It was just another patch of oddness in the strange afternoon. She stretched out on the bed. The water was getting a little rough, but everything in the cabin appeared to be bolted down except her. She vaguely wondered whether the added turbulence of the ocean would make her sick, but her stomach seemed made of cast iron. If anything she was still hungry.

Lying on the berth wasn’t a terribly good idea either. It smelled like Luca—like clean skin and the ocean and something else indefinable. And all she could do was relive every moment from last night, every touch, every taste, every thrust, every shattering response that had destroyed her and brought her back again. She wanted him inside her again. She wanted his big, hard body covering hers, straining against hers, she wanted his hands, his mouth on her breasts, which had suddenly hardened, and she reached down to touch them, wondering if she could give herself any relief.

Nothing. They were simply her breasts, they’d been there forever and existed to be crushed by a corset or displayed by a low-cut dress. She’d never realized what a source of intense pleasure they could be.

But not from her. She squirmed on the bed, remembering, feeling him push inside her, his mouth on hers. She’d expected his pleasure, and her own happiness at holding him afterwards. Instead it had been all sky west and crooked—the pleasure he had given her had
been astonishing, and in the aftermath he was the one who held her, stroked her hair, comforted her in her tears. This was all wrong.

She sat up, pushing her unbound hair behind her. There had been a comb but no hairpins to fasten the mass of dark hair, and if she’d still retained any when he’d brought her here they’d gotten lost in the bedclothes. Oh, God. She flopped back on the mattress. She wanted him. She wanted them together in this bed, naked again. She wanted to curl up in his lap, she wanted to tease him and talk about the books he read and sail with him to the ends of the earth.

It was obsession, pure and simple, stemming back to that childhood incident when she’d tried to run away with the gypsies. Those three days had been some of the happiest in her memory, though she’d regretted the grief it had given her father. But ever since then, whenever there were gypsies on the family land her father left them alone, in thanks for looking after her. And she would creep down and watch them, sometimes join them, listen to the stories they told at night.

But Luca wasn’t a gypsy, he was a changeling in a staid world. He didn’t belong, and yet he claimed a place there. It was little wonder she was fascinated by him, drawn to him.

She rolled over on her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. It smelled like his skin. She moaned, the feathers muffling the sound, and the ship gave a sudden lurch. She could hear the sound of the sails flapping in the wind, the creak of ropes as they were pulled down. Maybe they would all die in the storm. If they did, she only hoped they broke her out of this damned cabin and she went down in the water with Luca’s arms wrapped around her. Because he was lying to himself just as she was. Last night had been no ordinary night, not even for him.