Romancing the Rogue (46 page)

Josiah Cane.
Fox.
Percy lifted his hand and nearly slammed it hard on the desk, but stopped mid-air as a movement out of the corner of his eye reminded him he wasn’t alone. He held his breath and waited to see if his actions had awakened the lady. When she failed to move, he redirected his attention to the maps.

Simon had once informed him that Zephaniah Job commanded a smuggling ring near Polperro. But who was Josiah Cane? Who was this Fox? Frink had never mentioned anyone other than someone known as Whistler, the one who’d keyed them in to the Octavia’s whereabouts. Until now, Simon hadn’t believed Whistler existed. Recently intercepted messages proved Whistler had, however, masterminded the Octavia’s defeat. But who was Whistler? And how was he going to get a message to Simon to prove the informant’s existence?

Sifting through the papers, enthralled by information he’d been fortunate to gather, Percy collapsed in the desk chair. Mind racing, his heart thrummed with burgeoning hope. For the first time since the Octavia sank to the bottom of the Channel, barriers to Frink’s network of power were beginning to thin. He leaned back and closed his eyes, satisfied that he still had a chance to avenge his sister.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Captain?”

He shifted his gaze from the door to the bed to see if the disturbance had roused Lady Constance. He simply wasn’t ready to deal with the sobbing woman — yet. Not when a new plan was developing in his mind. He didn’t need distractions right now, and that was what she was proving to be, a disruption to his life and ambitions. He eyed her apprehensively and eased himself out of his chair. Then he strode soundlessly to the cabin door and quietly stepped outside.

“Shh,” he rebuked. “The lady’s sleeping.”

Ollie peered over Percy’s shoulder, wincing with the effort. “Not asleep, I wager, but ridden to exhaustion.”

“Aye.” Percy winked. With a lop-sided smile, he let the man think what he would. It only served to enhance the lady’s protection. “Is anything amiss?”

“A… m-miss?” Ollie stuttered.

“Other than wanting to catch sight of our prize, why are you here?”

He didn’t want to dwell on Lady Constance
—
as if he could forget her. He wanted to focus on how he was going to get Josiah Cane to lead him to Celeste’s killer. There would be time later to figure out what to do with the tempting wench in his bed and deal with the annoying trouble she’d caused him. But first, he had to get to London. Until the Striker docked, he had innumerable problems to contend with, not the least of which were keeping Constance safe, Collins and Guffald alive, and making sure the men on the ship didn’t mutiny again. After he arrived, the Admiralty Board would want a report on the Octavia, he’d have prisoners to relinquish, and Constance to see safely delivered home to her uncle. Simon wasn’t a man he wanted to engage when angry. The man was a formidable legend. The sooner Constance was off Percy’s hands, the better.

Perhaps news he’d been able to save his old friend, Guffald, would soothe Simon’s ruffled feathers where Constance was concerned.

“Cap’n?”

“Aye?” he answered, stirred from his musings.

“Your pardon, sir, but it seems you’re preoccupied.” He grinned. “Not that I blame you.”

“You’re quite fixated on that girl, aren’t you, Ollie?”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Clearing his throat, Ollie groaned. “If you get tired of her, the crew and me have drawn straws.”

Percy grinned. “Save it, you old sea dog. The lady is returning to her uncle. I don’t think Simon would think kindly of her returning sorely used.”

“Right.” He frowned. “Slightly used?”

A smile widened Percy’s lips. If anyone was going to slightly use the girl, it would be him. “What brings you below deck, Ollie? I counted on you being at the helm.”

“Frink’s crew, what’s left of ‘em, have agreed to terms. The others, those what fought and refused to sail, are floating like bloated whales in one of the Striker’s boats, headed to France.” Ollie’s wicked cackle raised the hair on his arms. They weren’t supposed to set any of the men free and France and England were at war.

“Why didn’t you put them in the hold? Simon wants them — alive.”

“No room left, Cap’n, not with what Frink had pulled from the Octavia and stored in the hold. With Collins, Guffald and his men, our own men, and now some of Frink’s men aboard, we would’ve been playing with fire if we thought we could control the lot of them at once, especially those loyal to Frink.”

Percy weighed the truth in Ollie’s explanation and nodded. His mate was right. According to his calculations, they were eight days from London. The last thing he needed was another mutiny on his hands.

“Then that will have to do,” he said.

“One other thing, sir.”

“Yes?”

“We, ah, well, sir, we pulled Frink from the drink. He’s aboard, sir.”

“Frink? Impossible!” Percy fisted his hands and swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. He hadn’t killed the man? “How?”

Ollie’s hands moved nervously as he talked. “Seems that after you fought the captain, he recovered long enough to swim away from the ship before it sank. Our men pulled him aboard but didn’t recognize him at first. They threw him in with the lot of ‘em in the hold. Didn’t want to bother you earlier in the night. Thought you might like some privacy with the girl. But this morning the captain made a ruckus. I need to know what you want us to do with ‘em, sir.”

The ramifications were horrendous — fortuitous. With Frink on board, his captaincy, his control over the other men was at risk. With the captain in the hold, Constance’s life was in jeopardy. But with Frink alive, he still had the potential connections he needed to find the man responsible for Celeste’s death.

“Leave him be for now, Ollie. He can’t do any harm to us in chains.” At least that was his most prevalent hope.

“Will do, Cap’n.”

“What about Guffald?”

“That conniving cuss has been through worse. He got a good knot to his noggin’, a few cuts and bruises, nothing serious. Ego’s a bit bruised. Nothing a spry lad like him can’t handle.”

“Where is he?”

Ollie smiled. “He’s with Collins’ men.”

“Collins.” Percy frowned. Something didn’t add up. But what, he couldn’t be sure. He’d fought with Guffald in the worst of conditions, but hadn’t been in touch with the lieutenant for a year. The man was a founding member of Nelson’s Tea, one of Nelson’s favorites. However, Guffald had not been privileged to the information that Percy had while working with Simon on this smuggling issue. Now wasn’t the time to include Guffald in his methodical scheme. Not with a personal vendetta on the line.

“What about Collins?” he asked, his hand paused over the knob to his cabin door, an ominous sensation taking hold of him. “Was the sawbones able to save him?”

Ollie’s eyes fixated on the floorboards beneath their feet. “Succumbed to his wounds, the captain did. Not a pretty sight, sir.”

Damn it! Captain Collins had been one of the best nautical minds under the British flag. He would never forget the man’s painful expression, his concern not for his own wounds but for Lady Constance. His loss was significant, but they’d all known the risks when they signed on with Nelson and Simon. “The Admiral won’t be pleased to hear that. Tell the men Collins is to receive a proper burial at sea.”

Ollie nodded. “The word has already been given, sir.”

“You’re a good man, Ollie,” he admitted, slapping the man on the shoulder. “What would I do without you?”

Pride lit up Ollie’s eyes. “You’d be at the bottom of the locker, I wager.”

Percy smirked. “At least I would have had a delectable wench to keep me company.”

“So true.” His second in command breathed deeply, furrowed his brows, and then cleared his throat. “Been meaning to ask you, Cap’n. What do you plan to do with Danbury’s niece?”

“Good question.” He tapped his chin. “What we must. We’ll return her to her father as quickly as possible. Until then, I’ll keep her in my cabin,
away
from the men. No one is allowed near her. Understood?”

“Aye. But who will keep her away from you, sir?” Ollie suggested.

Halfway through the door, Percy glanced back over his shoulder. “God only knows, Ollie. God only knows.”

Ollie cackled. “If you get tired of trying
—
”

“Simon’s niece is off limits,” Percy reminded him.

“Aye, sir!” Ollie saluted.

“Sound quarters. We’re headed home. I’ll be up momentarily.”

“Aye, sir.” Twisting his toe on the deck boards, Ollie added, “Would you be wanting the galley to heat some victuals for the lass?”

Percy nodded, imagining Constance would be quite hungry when she awoke. He rubbed the back of his neck against the strain she’d already imposed on him. Collins had been known for extravagant meals aboard his vessels. Surely a good meal would assuage her spirits. But what of his own?

“Aye,” he told Ollie. “I’ve built up quite a hunger.” A hunger for revenge, a taste for blood staunched only by the death of those responsible for ending his sister’s life.

Ollie shuffled away. Percy watched the man disappear down the companionway toward the galley. Josiah Cane’s name and unanswered questions inundated his mind. He was starving, but not for food. He was eager to find out who Josiah Cane was, desperate to know what kind of connections the man had with Frink, hungry for revenge and the satisfaction achieving his goal would bring.

“Hello?” a woman heralded.

That sensual voice sent a rush of desire directly to his loins. Sultry, inviting, it enticed him back in to the cabin, to reject the outside world and disappear inside her flesh. He closed the door. She sat up in his bed, hair in complete dishevel, sheet pulled up to her chin, completely unaware of her physical allure.

All at once, he was seized by a different kind of hunger.

Constance’s muscles rebelled
as she stretched her limbs and stared at a cabin ceiling. The dark wooden paneling, polished to a burnished sheen, revealed little as to her whereabouts. Confused, she sat up on her elbows, her eyes instantly alert as they focused on the opulently carved window encompassing the lighted end of the room. Perplexed and frightened, she gazed about. Nothing looked familiar. Not the rich red brocade draperies cascading down the corners of her bunk. Not the large window, where light radiated across the floor, or the accessories — rope, lanterns — lining the polished walls. She’d never been inside a captain’s cabin before but knew, without doubt, she had to be in one now. But whose? Captain Collins’ or Captain Frink’s?

Shaking her head to clear it, Constance focused on several voices streaming through a slight opening in the doorway. One in particular seemed vaguely familiar.

“I’ve built up quite a hunger.”

Her eyes widened with recognition when she sighted the tall, dark blackguard entering the cabin. Her heartbeat thumped like a battle drum at the sound of
his
voice. She wanted to flee, to find a way out of the tiny confines of the room, but before she could choose an option, the door closed behind him, cutting off any avenue of escape.

The menacing man leaned against the closed door, an expression of satisfaction lighting his face. He took his time regarding her and then stepped forward. Dressed in black, the pirate glared at her with a knowing gaze that singed her to her toes. His open appraisal made her all too aware she was in
his
room,
his
bed. Instinctively, she gripped the sheet higher before realizing it was but a modest partition between them, one he could easily cast aside should he so choose.

“Little blossom, that sheet will not protect you if I decide to delve between your legs.”

At her loud gasp, laughter bubbled up from his chest.

Setting aside her modesty, Constance slipped her feet to the edge of the bunk. She wasn’t going to be afraid of him. And to prove she wouldn’t be subjugated, she met his eyes without flinching.

“Where are my clothes?”

“You’ll not be needing them.”

Words wedged in her throat. She struggled to breathe. “What do you mean I’ll not be needing my clothes?”

Even before the question came out of her mouth, his meaning was clear. An abysmal vulnerability unlike any she’d ever experienced forced heat into her cheeks. He stepped closer, looming above her like a hawk stalking prey. She shrank back, scurrying on her hands and feet until her back braced against the wall, intent on putting as much space between herself and the deplorable scoundrel as possible.

“You’ll soon learn nothing can come between us,
Lady
Constance, including clothes.”

His alarming grin proved he meant to ensure every word. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow. Something wicked churned in her stomach as her mind labored over a memory, the sensation of them lying together without clothes, bodies scandalously intertwined, roaming fingers, and that voice luring her back from her nightmares. His heart pounding underneath her ear.

“How do you know my name?” she squeaked, trying desperately to block out the condemning images.

“Did you honestly expect me to believe your lies about being Admiral Duncan’s daughter? The man died quite seasoned. His daughters most assuredly wed and bedded before you were born.” His penetrating gaze darted over her body. “How old are you? I wager nineteen
—
at most.”

He moved closer. Her nerves immediately tensed as he rested his knee on the edge of the bunk and reached out to grab a lock of her hair. “Too young to be Duncan’s daughter… and far prettier.”

Unsettled, she snatched back her hair. A cold knot formed in her stomach. “You irritating simpleton! My age is of no consequence to you.”

“Yet you claim to be one of Admiral Duncan’s daughters
. Who is the simpleton?
”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“If I must,” he said with a wave of his hand, acting as if the effort drained him. His eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning not to insult him again.

Impaled by his gaze, Constance quivered with uncertainty. Was she doing the right thing by lying to him? Disquiet loomed between them as she pondered her decision, until he stood and walked to the door. He leaned casually against it, crossing his arms over his chest, posing a terrifying reminder that she wasn’t out of danger by any stroke of the imagination. And yet, try as she might, against her better judgment, against everything she knew to be right and just, she feasted on his toned, lean body. The tight-fitting breeches accentuated his firm thighs, the black shirt was stark against 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.

“Where am I?” Her voice cracked. She hated being vulnerable and hated herself more for thinking the man ruggedly attractive.

His mustached lip curled upward, and he stepped away from the door.

“You’re aboard the Striker. Don’t you remember?”

She turned away from him. Anxiety spurred through her as she gazed out the spacious window and replayed the previous night in her mind. Bone chilling images set her heart racing, proving she had much to be grateful for where he was concerned. She averted his gaze. Indeed, she remembered all too well that pirates had stormed through her cabin door. She recalled the first time she’d set eyes on him, the height of him in her cabin, the threat he imposed on her sanity, the feel of his hand over hers, the solid barrier his body made between her and Frink. She remembered the sight of poor tortured Captain Collins. She remembered that heartless blackguard, Frink, tearing at her clothes, trying to rape her. 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?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about him. He’ll do you no more harm.”

“And M-Mrs. Mortimer?” Fear took hold when the silence lengthened between them. 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? Was she still alive?

He broke away from the door and approached her slowly, sat down on the edge of the bed, and leaned close, making her heart flutter in strange, uncomfortable ways. “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 opened her mouth to ask another question. “Rest assured she is well.” He placed his finger on her lips.

Constance brushed his finger away with the back of her hand. “Why did you separate us?”

“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 didn’t make it.”

Captain Collins was dead? Her heart lurched. Wasn’t there anyone she could turn to? “Lieutenant Guffald?” Something flashed in his eyes when she mentioned the lieutenant’s name.

“Alive.”

“You’re lying! I saw him.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Your interest in the man is commendable. He cuts quite a figure walking around in his blue coat and shiny buttons. However, think no more on him. 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, sir. You are.”

When he didn’t say anything more, she snapped, “Who have I killed?”

The pirate’s eye flickered like molten gold and then turned mysteriously dark. A lethal combination paired with his glowering frown. Who was this infuriating man? If he was anything like that black-hearted killer, Frink, she couldn’t afford to drop her guard.

“Being in the wrong place at the wrong time altered your fate,” he said matter-of-factly. “Or sealed it.”

“The wrong place at the wrong…” His statement exasperated her so badly she couldn’t finish her sentence. “What exactly do you mean?”

His mouth thinned, yet he remained silent. As much as she wanted to hate him for what he was, the morning light caressing his face opposed her notion that he was as cold as ice. And yet something about him intrigued her. He’d saved her life, going to extremes to do so. Why?

Careful, Constance. You cannot let that fact alter your opinion of him. He’s the enemy.

Were he any other man, perhaps one at a pompous ball where she could pick and choose from those present, she would have danced with him a thousand dances. His physique and stature, formidably larger than Burton’s, proved he was incredibly agile. The size of his hands promised protection, not pain. An image of him pulling her to safety with those hands flashed across her mind—

No. No,
her mind rebelled. She wasn’t at a ball. Circumstances aboard the ship and anywhere else didn’t allow for her to think of the man in other way than her enemy. What point was there 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, her clothes, and imprisoned her in his cabin. If word of her predicament got back to her father, unlike her father’s financial standing, her reputation would never recover. Her virtue was all she had left to bargain with.

“What do I mean? Perhaps what I really want to know would be more appropriate. What were you doing on board the Octavia?”

What did he believe? He certainly wouldn’t care that she’d been on the way to Spain to beg her aunt to save her father’s duchy from ruin. He’d stolen what little funds she’d had left to do so. And she certainly wasn’t going to reveal her personal situation to a pirate. The man would just take advantage of her as he already had. Hadn’t he?

Constance cast her worried gaze on the floor where she spied black fabric lying in a heap at his feet. She scrutinized the remnants of his tattered shirt and then focused on the linen material near it. Her shift! Why was her shift and night wrapper torn into pieces? Who removed them? 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, “Did… did you take advantage of me last night?”

“Would you believe me if I denied it?”

“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, mind-numbing accusations. “I can’t remember,” she admitted. “What did you do to me last night?”

“I gave you some brandy.”

“Did you—” Her voice cracked. “—sleep with me?”

It was impossible to steady her frantic pulse as a frightening anticipation touched her spine and heat rose to her face.

His eyebrow raised inquiringly as he dropped to his knee on the bed. “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.” The nagging suspicion in the back of her mind wondered if he was capable of telling the truth.

“All right then.” He sighed.

She trembled with relief. Perhaps she’d been wrong. He’d saved her life, after all.

“Aye. I slept with you.”

“You ruined me?”

It couldn’t be. 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’d been violated, wouldn’t that have left a telltale sign on her body? She’d heard the servants speak about a woman’s first time. Blood left behind certainly indicated the loss of virginity. It was supposed to be a dreadfully painful experience. Wouldn’t she know if he’d debauched her?

She shifted in the bed, desperate not to find any hint that she’d been defiled. A stain revealed itself from under her leg. Her temper rose. Unmindful of the sheet covering her nudity, she balled her fists and proceeded to pummel him. The thin veil, no longer held hostage, descended to her waist, revealing the horrible bruise marring her breast.