The Rogue’s Prize (15 page)

pretended to be. Her refusal to accept

his advances had ignited his anger. In

response, he’d treated her no better than

a scullery maid or a street urchin kicked

out from under his muddy boots.

Hugging her arms about her,

Constance winced and gazed out to sea.

Beyond the glowing horizon laid Spain

and Aunt Lydia, her last hope. Behind

her stood a mysterious man who’d saved

her from a sinking ship, plied her with

brandy, divested her of her clothes, and

coerced her into his bed, stealing the one

thing that was hers to give. Her presence

on a pirate ship, alone, was enough to

ruin her good name. Who would marry

her now?

Remember what a real man feels

like, Constance. Hard where you are

soft, strong where you are weak.

Her body jumped to life at the mere

recollection.

Burton

was

nothing

compared to the rogue who all but

ravished with a look, a touch, and made

an unwilling subject desire things no

refined woman dared to admit. But even

ill-bred, the blackguard had not raised a

hand against her. In fact, he’d done the

complete opposite.

Remember the heat between us

when you’re cold and aching with

want.

Constance

had

no

trouble

remembering. Her body thrummed in

response to the memory of the rogue’s

hands on her body.

Shaking off her physical response,

she stepped away from the window and

began to pace. In the minutes and hours

since the sinking of the
Octavia
, she’d

secretly plotted her escape, learning as

much as she could about the ship by

searching through maps and charts on the

captain’s desk. She’d learned little in the

way of how to get to shore, but she’d

seen enough to understand a greater

network

of

pirates

existed

near

Cornwall. It was during one of those

investigations the captain had returned

and caught her. She’d never seen a man

angrier than the blackguard who held her

captive. He’d quickly gathered up his

maps and documents and left the cabin,

slamming the door off the hinge in his

wake.

A peg-legged man named Mr.

Banks had been assigned to restore her

privacy by manning the broken cabin

door until it could be repaired. Since the

regretful exchange over the maps, Banks

had not moved or eaten, though he’d

grumbled and complained about falling

so low he’d been ordered to keep watch

over a
woman
.

Constance listened to the rugged

man’s tirade until thoughts of her own

hunger helped her develop a new plan.

She cast a glance at the liquor cabinet,

and then rose from the floor to unbolt the

beveled glass, selecting a bottle of

brandy from its post.

“Mister

Banks,”

she

purred,

returning to her previous position.

“You’ve done a wonderful job keeping

watch. I think it’s only fitting you’re

rewarded.”

The

old

curmudgeon’s

eyes

gleamed. “With a drink,” she quickly

added, when his eyes scanned her body

appreciatively. “It’s the least I can do

after your harrowing sacrifice,” she

said, playing coquette.

“Sacrifice?”

Banks

repeated.

“Don’t coddle me, woman. ’Tis a big

one by far. Besides, I’m the laughing

stock of the ship. It’s bad enough women

are aboard, but no one wants to be stuck

guarding a woman when the action is

above deck.”

“Action?” she asked, suddenly

nervous. “What action?”

His eyes locked onto hers. “We’re

bracing for a storm, Miss.”

A storm! Oh, this didn’t fit in with

her plans. She had no time to lose. She

leaned forward until her nose breached

the opening in the door. “Did the captain

mention there would be a reward for

keeping me safe, Mister Banks?”

The man’s beady eyes narrowed.

He looked left then right, checking for

any activity in the hallway before

looking in her direction. “Reward?” he

repeated. He licked his lips and smiled.

“Behold,” she said, holding up a

brandy bottle and swishing the contents

around with a flick of her wrist. “The

captain’s last words to me were, ‘Make

sure Banks gets a good swig of this

brandy. He’ll be doing you a service

standing guard over your door and will

need something to ease the ache in his

gullet and his wounded pride.’”

Banks’s eyes twinkled and she

smiled at how easily it was to trick him.

His eyes watered and his mouth

puckered. He gazed left then right, as if

uncertain her offer was legitimate.

“Have you had brandy before,

Mister Banks?” she asked. The man’s

eyes opened wide. It was a simple

question but she meant it as a dare.

“Once. At a dinner for a fine gent

my parents knew. Burned all the way

down my throat, it did.”

A

sound

echoed

down

the

hatchway. Banks drew away, but then

returned when all grew silent again.

“Never took a liking to it,” he added,

with a frown.

“Ah, but surely you are cold,”

Constance said, noticing the worse for

wear clothing he wore. “After the

Octavia
sank, the captain gave me some

brandy and it warmed me. I cannot speak

highly enough of its medicinal value.”

“Medicinal

value?”

Banks

repeated. “Perhaps I
should
try a taste.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a

dollop of rum. Couldn’t hurt, eh?”

“No, indeed,” she insisted.

Her heart raced as she passed the

bottle through the partially opened door,

past the broken hinge, to the little man.

The man hissed and coughed at his first

drink, making a fuss as if he’d been

poisoned, then hummed as the fiery

liquid began its work. While he drank,

she asked him fairly innocent questions

about the ship. He answered, downing

one swig after another. When the bottle

was nearly empty, Constance grew

fearful Banks would never get drunk.

Beads of perspiration formed on

her brow. She had no idea when the

captain would be returning and had little

time to waste. Thankfully, Banks finally

hunched over. Snapping her fingers near

his ear and confident he’d passed out,

she opened the door slowly, careful not

to make a sound. The drunken sailor

slithered to the floorboards and began to

snore.

In the hallway, Constance took a

deep breath. The trickiest part of her

plan, getting out of the cabin, was done.

She gazed down the companionway and

peered up the hatch, then, certain she

was alone, directed her attention to

doors lining the hallway. Before her a

door stood ajar. A quick glance proved

the room was empty. She scanned the

other door. This room, according to the

Striker’s

blueprints,

housed

the

lieutenant’s quarters.

Footsteps tap, tapped along the

ceiling. Constance rushed to the door

and quietly tried the latch. Locked!

Voices grew louder and the ship leaned

unexpectedly. Desperate now, she raced

back to Banks and rummaged through his

pockets. She wrinkled her nose at the

man’s horrible stench, pressed her lips

together, and focused on her task, lifting

the folds of his shirt to find a belt and a

ring of long, iron keys attached.

Dislodging them, she returned to the

lieutenant’s cabin and began trying them,

one by one.

By now, Mrs. Mortimer could be

heard whimpering from the other side of

the door. “Shhh,” she hissed. “It’s

Constance. I’ve come to free you.”

Silence, then the woman’s voice

shouted. “No, child. What are you

thinking? Return to your cabin.”

“I’ve got a plan, Morty. We shall

be free of these men soon.”

• • •

Lieutenant Henry Guffald grimaced

as he reached for the door sealing the

hold. Wind pelted his face and the

wounds he’d sustained during the

Octavia
’s attack burned with salty brine.

He was drenched to the core, exhausted,

but no longer paralyzed by orders of the

crown.

A storm had overrun them. Every

capable sailor manned the lines. The

timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

He couldn’t have planned or predicted

an outcome so fine. Sexton’s attention

was focused on the
Striker
, his newly

acquired crew, and the squall. No one

would be missed. And if he was going to

get off the ship with Lady Constance

before anyone was the wiser, he needed

a diversion — Frink. Setting Frink free

provided the perfect cover.

While he revered Sexton like a

brother, Henry knew the man’s moral

compass. He would take Lady Constance

back to London, and return her to her

misguided father. But London had

nothing to offer. Once there, she would

be forced to wed Lord Montgomery

Burton, the man she’d fled when she’d

boarded the
Octavia
bound for Spain.

Henry had been privy to this information

thanks to Simon Danbury and before

setting sail, he’d sworn to protect her.

The best way to do that, he reasoned,

was to become her champion. Rescuing

her from the Striker’s men would surely

raise his credibility, especially since he

had no other opportunity to prove

himself worthy of marrying a duke’s

daughter. He wanted Constance, had

wanted her ever since he’d seen her

visiting her uncle on the docks. This was

his chance to prove himself.

Certain he hadn’t been noticed,

Henry lowered himself into the hold. He

expected no difficulty. Most of the men

present knew him in more ways than

one.

The ship swayed left, and then

pitched right. Henry braced himself

against a rail. “Captain wants all able-

bodied men topside,” he shouted to two

sailors guarding the Striker’s crew.

“We’ve been given strict orders not

to let these men out of our sight,” one of

the guards shouted.

“No doubt you have,” Henry

agreed. “But there’s a wicked whip to

this wind and the cables aren’t secure.

Unload the lot so we can get the ship

under control. We’ll round them up soon

after.”

The men looked at each other,

uncertain. “To keep them below would

be a waste of muscle,” Henry reasoned.

“These men know every splinter on this

ship. If we lose sail now, we
lose
this

ship.”

The other sailor spoke. “What if

they try to escape?”

“Where are they going to go, man?”

he asked. “Worst case, they’ll get blown

overboard by gale force winds. Best

scenario, we stay afloat.”

The second man nodded to the first

guard. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

Henry grinned. He had them. They

could not quarrel about facts.

“Tell the captain, we’ll be bringing

the men as soon as we get them loose,”

the smaller man said.

“Captain’s at the helm. Deliver the

message yourself. I’ll make sure these

men are released and impressed into

service. This will have to be a group

effort. I fear we’ve lost one sail

already,” he added for effect.

The two men bolted for the hatch.

When they disappeared, men inside the

hold began to rattle their chains.

“Stand back,” he ordered the

Striker’s crew, as he approached the

iron monstrosity the men had been

impounded in. “Captain Frink, step

forward.”

The group parted and the weathered

looking captain closed the distance