Romancing the Rogue (45 page)

Percy lay awake
for four torturous hours, ever mindful of the shivering form at his side. Lady Constance, the untouchable female who’d helped him understand the error in baiting a dog. Except, he was the dog and she was the tempting morsel.

He lay there in the stillness, agonizing over each breath she breathed, feather light, tickling hairs on his chest where her head relaxed against his skin. The seconds felt like hours as they ticked slowly by and he reminded her over and over that she was safe, that she needn’t fear drowning. Every now and again, her fingers flexed, grazing his stomach, shooting sparks of heated pleasure from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Still, he lay there, unwilling to move should the leg draped over his lower regions make him all the more eager to sample her angelical flesh. Aye, he was hungry, all right. Hungry for what he couldn’t take. Hungry for what every ounce of his being knew he couldn’t have. He wasn’t used to waking up next to a woman or, for that matter, sleeping with a woman of rank. As a general rule, his dalliances had been quick, impersonal. In his arms, however, lay the conundrum. Constance made him face the truth. He was a man with needs, and vengeance had denied him the one thing a man should have at his side — a good woman.

Under Simon Danbury’s service for nigh onto four years as a member of Nelson’s Tea, Percy couldn’t fault his commander for the predicament he found himself in. Simon was an excellent leader, well known, especially to those who defied the law. Under his direction, Percy had become a force to be reckoned with. Indeed, he owed Simon Danbury his utmost allegiance. And he’d shown it. For Simon’s sake, for Lady Constance’s sake, he’d killed Frink, severing ties that led him to those responsible for Celeste’s death. Though he’d been chastised for pursuing Frink’s benefactor for nearly a year, he’d also been given the authority and leave to do so. Simon backed his mission. He trusted Percy’s instincts even though he didn’t approve of the risks Percy took to find absolution.

Now, in this bed, within his arms, he held the one person Simon cherished above all others — his niece. Though he wanted to wake her, seduce her, make her his, to do so meant destroying Constance’s future and fracturing Simon’s trust. But, he was just a man. A man who’d followed killers into hell. A man who’d mutinied and jeopardized the lives of his men for a blonde-haired angel. Didn’t he deserve some kind of reward?

Constance moaned. Percy glanced down at her tussled mane and touched her golden hair. The wavy tendrils streamed across his chest and entwined within his fingers, foreign as silk, reminding him that he knew nothing at all about the lithe woman in his arms except her name, though she hadn’t willingly given it to him.

Who was Lady Constance Danbury? What led her to lie about her name? What made her think pretending to be Admiral Duncan’s daughter would spare her life? And what had she been doing on board the Octavia?

The stubborn woman couldn’t even swim. In fact, she was afraid of the sea. What had happened to justify her presence on board the ship? What would drive any woman to face her worst fears head on?

“Mama,” she mumbled. “Don’t leave me.”

“Henry.”

Percy tried to make sense of her rambling, mumbled words. Like any frightened young woman, she called out to her mother. But her companion was Mrs. Mortimer. Where was Constance’s mother? Why did she cry out for Henry? Was Henry her lover’s name
—
husband’s name? Lieutenant Henry Guffald had been aboard the Octavia. Was she calling out for him? The thought disturbed him, though he had no idea why. Guffald was a good man. The lieutenant had certainly fought long and hard in the Octavia’s defense. But did Guffald have other reasons for protecting Constance? His old friend had certainly never given him cause to doubt his honorable intentions, but even the thought of Guffald coming to Constance’s defense displeased him. He didn’t want to think of the vulnerable woman in Guffald’s arms, curled against his body like she was now, or with any other man, especially not in the throes of passion.

Percy closed his eyes, realizing his mistake too late. Images of Constance in Guffald’s arms tormented him with abandon, sending an unruly amount of frustration surging throughout his extremities. Sensations of raw lust consumed him when the woman in question shifted positions, making his cock stiffen, making him ache for what he dared not take.

Constance fit
him
to perfection. She was a tempting creature, and Percy wanted to believe that her innocence wasn’t a façade, that he had every right to claim her as his own. If he wanted to believe his men, he’d won that right by saving her life, by casting aside his purpose in finding his sister’s killers to shield her from Frink’s demonic amusement. She was in his
cabin. She was his to do with as he pleased. She was part of
his
world now.

“No!”

Had she read his thoughts? Reality returned and logic prevailed as Lady Constance cried out, draping her hair across his chest as she struggled against him. Her fingers clawed at his abdomen. She squeezed her inner thigh against his groin as if to climb inside him. Percy’s agony amplified. Lust blazed inside him. She wasn’t herself but caught between nightmare and reality. Guilt infused, he felt the cad for becoming aroused by an innocent.

Another feminine moan for help reached his ears.

Lady Constance was Simon’s niece, God help him. It took every ounce of his will to restrain himself from turning Constance onto her back and simply taking what he wanted —
needed
—
now.

In a perfect world, she would be married to a notable member of the
ton
, preparing to offer her virginal buffet to an eager, rutting husband. But she was in his world, an imperfect place, not with a mealy mouthed lord. She was in a pirate’s bunk on a pirate ship, not a dandy’s bed. Though he was a member of the peerage and could make her a good husband, he would never surrender his identity, cut off his ability to chase after something no woman would ever understand or allow — justice. God’s truth, he’d even hidden his activities from his own father.

When he’d joined Nelson’s Tea, he’d been sworn to secrecy, sworn to uphold the King’s edict. Serve when called by Admiral Nelson, no matter the mission or the lives left behind. The men of Nelson’s Tea gave up the duties of first son in order to weave their way into the underbelly of the nation’s resistance so that Nelson’s war would be successful at home and abroad. No one, they’d been told, would suspect first sons of accomplishing such feats. No one would get in their way.

Percy had answered every call Nelson had ever made, and he’d done so without question, until his sister’s untimely death — until now.

“Henry,” Constance whimpered again.

He was beginning to loath Guffald’s given name. Had she been seduced by Guffald aboard the Octavia, promised something the man couldn’t give? He gazed at the fingers of her left hand. She wore no ring. The knowledge that she was unattached pleased him, howbeit oddly.

“Lieutenant, help me,” she murmured, shaking.

Percy smiled. Guffald wasn’t her lover. Lady Constance had been through an unconscionable ordeal and relived the moments in her dreams, calling out to the first capable man she knew could save her. But Guffald had failed to answer her prayers. It had been Percy’s prowess, Percy’s quick reaction that had kept her from being ravished by Frink and saved her from drowning. To take advantage of the woman he’d championed would only align him with the likes of Frink and his men, in her eyes.

Percy closed his eyes and directed his thoughts to his sister, willing her petite form to appear, just as he’d done a thousand times before to fuel his anger. Long black hair, dimpled cheeks, and trusting purity — Celeste. Nearly a year ago, when he’d been called away to duty, his young sister had been forcibly taken from the family phaeton, leaving his father badly crippled, never to recover. Unrelenting in his pursuit of her attackers, Percy had tracked Celeste to the docks, where he’d discovered that she’d been forced aboard a ship and ill-used. Much to his dismay, he would later discover her abused and left to grovel in the streets like a common doxy
. When they finally found her
in the shipyard uttering nonsense, she’d professed one word
—
fox
—
over and over again. Consumed by disease, spirit broken, Celeste had lasted but a few months after she’d been found. Percy had been forced to watch her die a slow, agonizing death. And since that time, an overwhelming hatred yet to be staunched had possessed him. Even now, thoughts of Celeste’s suffering fired his rage, a rage that had served him well under Frink’s command.

Body tense, but in control once again, Percy opened his eyes. The dawn of a new day filtered through the ornate window occupying the back wall of the cabin. The fiery glow, shards of light beaming in slender fanning rays, cast a golden haze on all he surveyed — all but his heart. Frowning, longing to ignore the call to rise because he took great pleasure in the feel of Constance’s tender flesh against his, Percy knew he would never get another chance to be so intimate with a lady of her worth. Days of trivial pursuits were gone. Nothing and no one existed but Thomas Sexton and those who would pay with their mortal souls for what they’d done to Celeste.

No longer able to prolong the inevitable, Percy eased out of the coverlet. Making sure not to disturb Constance, he rose from the bed, and stepped away from the bunk. Naked and stiff, in more ways than one, he reached for his discarded trousers, shook them out, and yanked them on. He then picked up his shirt but noticed, as he retrieved it from the floor, it had experienced the worse for wear during his battle with Frink. The garment was a tattered, ruined mess. His gaze settled on Frink’s trunk. Though the man was shorter than he, and more rotund, he crossed the distance, opened the lid, and rummaged through the contents, casting aside one garish selection after another until he found a plain black shirt wadded in the bottom. For a slight moment, he wondered who the shirt had once belonged to, for it certainly didn’t fit the captain’s size or style. Then, casting off the question, he slipped his arms into the flowing, ruffled sleeves and tucked the long ends of the shirt into his breeches, leaving the laced front gaping open across his chest.

Hands on his hips, he looked about the cabin. A fine work of carpentry it was, giving credit to the captain’s rank. Frink, he was surprised to find, had outfitted the Striker with the best, lining the walls in rich mahogany. Bookcases filled one portion of the west cabin wall. A section, cordoned with glass cabinets, held liquor, showcasing one of Frink’s many vices.

Stepping over to the cabinet, Percy touched the fine-etched glass. The artistry was beyond exceptional. How had Frink financed the skilled laborers?

Whoever had been backing the man had to have been someone of great importance. For no other would have sponsored such opulence in a shipyard, except the East India Trading Company. The liquor in the cabinet stared back at him invitingly. Sating his thirst proved quite appealing since he couldn’t act on his original hunger for the lady herself. Percy opened the cut-glass doors and stared at two bottles of port, a bottle of brandy, and a jug of rum, each tethered against the wall to keep them from falling and breaking in choppy seas. An additional pair of low bottomed glasses stowed nearby proved Frink unbelievably civilized.

The bed shifted. Percy glanced over his shoulder, half-afraid he’d have to deal with a startled woman before getting the stiff drink he needed to warm his bones. What he saw made him even more adamant to get that drink. Constance lay on her side, the coverlet gathered over her breasts. The sight of her dipping waist and mounding hips stirred his loins. He licked his dry lips, closed the liquor case, and frowned. Liquor would not ease what ailed him.

He strode over to the built-in bookcase and stopped to scan literary works neatly stacked inside.
Twelfth Night
by William Shakespeare, Edmund Burke’s
Reflections on the Revolution in France
, and
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
by William Blake lined the shelves. Percy frowned. Who would’ve guessed Frink had any sort of taste in literature? A deep rooted suspicion began to take root within him. He had not been toying with a simpleton, but a man of complexities.

Percy settled his gaze on the large mahogany desk jutting out of the inlaid floor like coral on a reef. Built with a tall wooden lip around the edges to prevent content spillage in rough seas and complete with garish designs carved on the legs, the monstrosity owned the room. The surface, unbeknownst to him until now, displayed rolled parchments and maps, which had been tossed across the top of the desk as if they’d been discarded in a hurry. Percy eyed the papers curiously, scanning the myriad paperwork until he spied a map weighted down by a quadrant and compass. Leaning closer, he examined the nautical measurements and then used them to calculate the distance off of England’s coastline, a directional chart flow that led to an unnamed port off the coast. The location had been circled and dated three months prior. Intrigued, he traced back over the route with his finger. His brow arched when his finger came to rest at Talland Bay just beyond the tiny town of Polperro along the Cornish coast.

His hopes immediately lifted as he recollected that he’d returned home briefly to tend to his ailing father during that time, making him suspiciously absent at the recorded meeting place. Determined to find out what had transpired there, Percy flipped through the hastily assorted piles, eager for another clue. Two names appeared
—
Zephaniah Job and Josiah Cane
—
beside which the word
fox
had been scrawled.