The Rogue’s Prize (8 page)

clutched her arms across her chest and

shifted darting glances at each of his

men, fleeting looks that tore at his pride.

That she suspected his men of foul play

was obvious. But with lives depending

upon strength and brawn in order to win

the day, her crazed stare forced home the

truth. His life would be forever changed

and he and his men would be the barb of

distrust.

Her actions did not perplex him as

he stared across the boat and a clear

streak of moonlight revealed the

obvious. In his quest to get Lady

Constance off of the
Octavia
, he’d

forgotten her state of undress. After

Frink’s attack and a dip in the drink, her

nightshift and wrap hung in tatters. Her

long blonde hair lay platted against her

skull, dull and lifeless. Without a cloak

or anything else to protect her from the

cold, the night air chilled her to the

bone. Conscious of her discomfort,

Percy immediately shifted positions,

forcing one of the men closest to her to

relocate to the other end of the boat. He

sat down next to her, amid her

protestations, and wrapped his arms

about her. When she finally settled, he

tilted her face up to his and noted the

blue tinge developing on her lips. Odder

still was her blank stare. For the first

time in a long time, a noble stirring of

humanity jolted him awake, tamping

down the fiery heat her semi-clad body

ignited in his loins. Disregarding his

own comfort, he picked her up and set

her upon his lap. He cradled her tiny

form in his arms, absorbing her

quivering spasms as he placed her head

against the nook of his neck, allowing

her to nuzzle closer for warmth.

His men grinned, wickedly. With

hearty laughter they bet on how quickly

the woman would fall for his charms.

“Row, men!” he ordered. “Leave

the wilted blossom be.”

Shivering, she did indeed look and

feel like a withered bloom — one, he

knew, would stun the ton under different

circumstances. Her oval-shaped face

tendered his heart, making him wonder

how long it had been since he’d had a

decent woman, since he’d kissed softer

lips.

What was he thinking? Lady

Constance

Danbury

was

his

commander’s niece, for pity’s sake. Off

limits! Yet, since the moment he’d first

seen her defiantly standing with a bed

warmer held aloft over her head, he’d

been attracted to her. Her delicate body

entreated him to test her passions, to

show her what a real man could do to a

willing woman.

You’re a pirate. Not a real man.

Her barb had cut deep.

It had been her strength of will, her

refusal to give her real name or cower

before him, which proved she sported an

unrivaled passionate nature. Though

many

back

home

questioned

his

appetites, he let them believe what they

would in order to protect himself. But on

t h e
Striker
, men were free to lead

whatever life they so desired. His men

expected nothing less than for him to

take Constance to his bed, to claim his

prize as was his right as captain. As he

studied her face, he knew he would give

anything to prove to her Ladyship the

kind of man he really was.

Percy frowned. Why had Constance

Danbury been on board the
Octavia
in

the first place? Was she Simon’s

emissary? Frink’s accomplice? What

was her real motive for sailing to Spain?

The situation between England and

Spain was tenuous at best. And
if
he

were forced to sail back to England, in

close proximity to a curvaceous

temptation that warranted both his

distrust and honor-bound protection, he

could make no assurances her chastity

would remain unchecked.

Indeed, as the gig pulled up

alongside the
Striker
and he gazed up at

the hands preparing to haul them aboard,

he scowled. Life had a way of

hoodwinking the best. Hours ago, he’d

left the
Striker
a first mate, only to return

its captain. With his new moniker came

the errant task of profiting from the

passengers and crew of an ill-fated

merchantman.

But, in doing his duty to Lady

Constance, what would be yielded from

his soul?

• • •

cabin, Constance shivered as Percy’s

hands massaged her stiff muscles,

encouraging them back to life. She

leaned into his touch and mindlessly

wrapped her stiff, cold arms about his

waist.

“Why didn’t you let me die?” she

pleaded, her voice whisper soft.

“Shush. You’re safe now,” he

promised.

“Liar,” she charged. “You’re a

pirate.”

Frink’s attempt to rape her flashed

before his eyes. He understood her view

of him. She’d not seen anything to

dissuade her from those atrocious ideas.

“Aye. I’m a liar and a pirate.” He

picked up a bottle of French brandy,

probably smuggled in from Portugal, on

the side table and stared at the label.

“Now drink this,” he said. “It’ll warm

your bones.”

She eyed him skeptically, shaking

without stop as she grabbed the

proffered

container

and

greedily

swallowed a large gulp of the fiery

amber liquid. Her eyes brightened. Her

nostrils flared and her throat constricted.

She coughed uncontrollably.

“Burns?” he asked. At her nod, he

added, “Drink up. The burning will

warm you from the inside out.”

“For what purpose?” she asked.

“Whatever purpose I choose,” he

said.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll die

before I succumb to the likes of you.”

“So you’ve promised,” he chided.

She drank another long swig of

brandy and stared up at him with glazed

eyes. Then, heaving a sigh, she

collapsed into oblivion.

All for the better, he supposed.

Lifting the cask to his lips, Percy

turned it over and shook the empty

bottle. Wouldn’t you know it? He looked

down upon his commander’s fragile

relation. Fate had an indecent way of

mocking him. Constance Danbury was a

woman he’d be a fool to spoil. She was

meant for dandies and tepid young men

of gentle persuasion, not a man with

secrets or vengeful ambitions.

Casting the empty cask aside, Percy

lifted Constance into his arms. He laid

her upon Frink’s bunk,
his
bunk. Her

body warmed beneath his fingers. Her

weary face lay obscured in shadow. In

the stillness of his cabin, he could hear

her breathe and he took great pleasure in

the fact that her lungs sounded clear.

His gaze trailed the length of her

pale,

shapely

body.

Innocent,

courageous, she was a feast for a lonely

man’s eyes, cream and honey, long

strawberry blonde locks plastered to

delicate cheekbones and shoulders with

sparkly brine. It had been a long time

since he’d seen an unspoiled woman, too

long since he’d encountered perfection.

He scanned the length of her long, lean

limbs, and trailed her firm buttocks and

trim waist, sucking in his breath before

settling his gaze on the outline of

youthful breasts visible beneath the

transparent veil of her torn, wet shift.

A silver locket lay against her

chilled skin. Jealous of the intimacy, his

hands longed to test the uncharted

territory of her curves. But Constance

Danbury was off limits. She was

Simon’s niece. And if he knew what was

good for him, he’d stop thinking about

the feel of her dewy skin sliding against

his naked body in the throes of passion.

Restless, Percy rose from the bunk

and walked over to the large mahogany

desk in the center of the captain’s cabin

to pull out another bottle of brandy. He

downed the remnants in one gulp,

enjoying the warmth that burned a fiery

track down his throat, into his stomach.

Once sated, he sat in the captain’s chair,

pleasured by the sight of Lady

Constance’s near naked form on display

before him. He feasted his eyes upon

her, reveling in her beauty. He had

nothing else to do, nowhere else to go

unless he slept with his men, a most

unreasonable idea, given his new rank

and the guest he dared not abandon in his

quarters.

T h e
Striker
sailed deep in the

water.

Packed

with

the
Octavia
’s

supplies, the cargo hold was full. Forced

to carry what was left of the
Octavia’
s

and Frink’s crews, plus with the added

weight of his own men and two women,

the ship was weighted down. The

journey home would involve detailed

attention.

Percy felt the weight of his

command spur him into action. He

should go above deck. Take charge. No,

he thought pensively. He should stay

where he was. He owed it to Danbury to

protect his niece. He owed it to himself

to ensure she made it home to London

unscathed. But he’d been denied any hint

of happiness for far too long. Lying

helplessly before him, Lady Constance

was a temptation no man could resist.

She was a feast for the eyes and he sat

back and devoured her at his leisure.

How long he did so, he couldn’t be sure,

but she moaned, and then shivered,

jarring him out of his stupor. Like a

siren, she drew him physically back to

the bunk, the one place he knew he

shouldn’t, couldn’t be.

Percy stood before her as another

pitiful moan disputed his intelligence.

He’d left her uncovered, open to his

appraisal, vulnerable to the cold. He

reeled in his stupidity and grit his teeth.

With sensitivity he hadn’t possessed in

ages, he lifted her nightshift up and over

her shoulders, and then discarded it upon

the floor at his feet. The action was

sheer torture. The brandy had done its

worst. Tempted beyond reason, he

reached out a finger and traced the

graceful line of her shoulder. The

sensitive fingertip slid down her arm,

waist, hip, thigh, and calf, until he

touched her slender, dainty feet. Every

inch of her looked like cream, felt like

silk, a prized and valued commodity to a

rogue of any ilk.

Percy’s pulse soared. His heart

drummed, professing his desires had

been far too long ignored. For the

moment, his mind screamed, Lady

Constance was
his
and
his
alone. Her

womanhood a bud he could lure to full

bloom, if he willed it. But that wasn’t

reality and he wasn’t that drunk.

Now more than ever, he wanted to

reclaim his life in London, prove himself

worthy of a good woman, like the one

sleeping before him. But Celeste was

dead. His home, once overseen by a

virile, respectable member of the ton,

now housed a dying cripple immersed in

sorrow, his father, the duke, stripped of

a purpose for living.

Percy closed his weary eyes and

dreamed of better days, of privilege,

society,

uncomplicated

frivolity.

Picnics, carriage rides in Hyde Park

along the Serpentine, jaunts along Rotten

Row, operas in Convent Garden and

rare artifacts discovered at the British

Museum.

In his youth, he’d indulged in

wicked pretentiousness. Masked the real

man he’d always dreamt of becoming,

the real man, he, disguised as Thomas

Sexton, had become, free of constraint.

He was born Percival Avery, Marques

Stanton, son of Rathbone Avery, Sixth