Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (10 page)

Moving off the bed, he strode across the room and began rummaging through a trunk, throwing assorted clothing in garish hues this way and that at his sides. Kneeling on the floor to reach into the bottom, he tossed her two pieces of corbeau fabric, the color hinting between dark green, black, and death.

“These will do. Put them on.”

She caught the pieces mid-air. Plying the fabric apart, she recognized a pair of breeches and a muslin shirt.

“Put them on and be quick about it,” he ordered. “Don't keep me waiting.”

“I prefer privacy.” She straightened her spine. “You will have to leave.”

He rose to his full height, balled his fists, and took a step forward. “You'll put the clothes on or you'll try something else on for size. A tutorial I'd be more than happy to oblige.”

His black breeches clung to his muscular frame, leaving nothing to her imagination. Constance jerked the clothes beneath the sheet and held it like a barrier between them. Satisfied she would do as he'd ordered, he walked to the garish desk and busied himself with papers scattered there. He did not leave.

“Turn your back, pirate!”

His gaze instantly narrowed upon her. He growled low in his throat and took a hasty step forward. Then mid-stride, he stopped with fisted hands and leaned back against the desk to cross his arms over his chest.

“I do believe you
want
me to watch, you haughty wench. Aye. It would do my heart and my rudder good to give you my dutiful attention.”

Constance realized her mistake as Mrs. Mortimer's words echoed in her head.
A whiny woman drinks sour milk, while a soft-spoken woman eats cream.
Her stomach growled, furthering her shame.

“Do you plan to taunt me as well as starve me?” she asked.

“To the one, I will do as I please. To the other, your gut will thank me soon enough.”

“The day will never come that I thank you for anything.”

“Including your life?” he queried.

Her stomach growled unpleasantly. Why did the man know exactly what she needed and when? It was exasperating. “You have saved my life. I'm grateful, but I do not need anything else from you,” she insisted.

“Liar.” As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly. “Suit yourself,” he said pointing to her clothes.

Frowning with embarrassment, Constance reached for the shirt he'd given her and put her arms through the sleeves while keeping the sheet pulled high over her breasts. The task proved difficult but once she learned how to use the sheet to her advantage, she was able to dress with calculated ease. When she'd tied the bodice in place at the neck, she shyly directed her gaze at the pirate. His heated expression proved that his prying eyes had never once left her person.

“It would be much easier if you stood up,” he scolded.

His vulgarity sent a shock through her system. Mrs. Mortimer had been the only other human soul ever in attendance during her toilette. It was positively scandalous that she dressed in front of this man, with or without a sheet. No gentleman he. Even so, perseverance held sway. She would rather confront the man dressed than devoid of a stitch of clothing. At least clothed, she stood to regain some dignity. Drawing the odd-fitting breeches over her legs, trousers which fit loose around her waist and snugly around her hips, it grew somewhat easier to relax with a degree of modesty salvaged.

He gifted her with applause. “Bravo! Quite a performance.”

“You're despicable,” she snapped.

“Why? I've seen everything you have to offer, and more.”

She gasped. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. How do you expect you slept so calmly last night, little rose? Who do you think took off your wet clothes and comforted you through your feverish tremors?”

“You despicable lout!”

“Despicable louts are often comforted by naked women.”

Constance leaped off the bunk and rushed toward him, her nails bared to scratch out his good eye. But he extended his long arms and his hands caught hold of her before she could do any damage. He laughed, turning her around in his iron-clad embrace. He then pressed his groin against her backside and whispered huskily, “I dare what I want, when I want.”

His hands braced her against his rock hard body. Frightened by his obvious arousal, she struggled to regain her freedom.

“Resisting me is pointless, Constance. I know what you need and I'm more than willing to provide. Only say the word and I will gladly show you how thrilling it is to sail with a pirate.”

“I'd die first,” she hissed.

“So you've said and nearly done.”

“You're a vile, despicable beast!” she railed.

“A hungry beast,” he said close to her ear, taking one lobe between his teeth.

The hair on her neck stood on end as his breath energized her skin all the way to her lower extremities. Sensations prickled along her spine as his lips traced light kisses from her ear to her shoulder. Unbelievably, Constance felt her body reacting to his touch. Her legs weakened, her womb constricted strangely, and she let out a defeated moan. Encouraged, he pushed her blouse down the top of her shoulder and flicked his tongue across her neck, working up to her ear in a circular pattern.

“I'll not pluck your petals unless you allow it, sweeting,” he whispered.

“Never,” she moaned.

“So you say now. Mark my words — you'll be craving what I can give you before long.”

His hands led a full assault on her senses, inching up her stomach until his fingers wrapped around both of her breasts, teasing the neglected buds into expectant peaks. Constance covered his hands with her own in an effort to remove them and sucked in a struggling breath, trying desperately to douse the engulfing fire coursing through her veins.

“Remember what a real man feels like, Constance,” he said, huskily, pressing against her. “Hard where you are soft, strong where you are weak.”

His breath, his words tapped her strength. Her legs nearly buckled as he nuzzled her neck and continued the assault on her awakening body.

“Remember the heat between us when you're cold and aching with want.”

Constance moaned as his lips traced kisses along the length of her shoulder. Never before had she felt so adrift. She leaned into him, completely lost in the moment, eager to absorb his strength. Desperate to taste his lips before she collapsed weakly to the floor, she turned her head toward his. But she met empty space. No sooner had she given up fighting his seduction, she found herself indelicately propped against the desk. Gathering her wits, trying to understand what had just occurred, she heard the cabin door slam shut. Angered that she had just betrayed herself, she ran toward the door, latched onto the knob and threw it open to spin his head with her insults. But instead of catching the man who'd just humiliated her, she came face to face with a dirty scoundrel bearing a toothless grin, sporting eyes as round as glass beads.

“Well. Well. Look at the cat what's jumped in my lap,” the strange man yapped like a gutter dog.

Constance backed into the room, desperate to escape the filthy man. With a sudden boost of courage, she slammed the door in the jackal's face. Then, leaning back on the portal, she berated herself for coming so close to giving in to her enemy against her own better judgment. It was apparent, now more than ever, that she had to find a way to regain her freedom. For all intents and purposes, she'd been compromised. The only hope she had for rectifying her father's downfall was making it to Spain and begging for Aunt Lydia's help. London held no future for her now. Things as they were, Constance would rather die trying to help her father, then return home in disgrace, and be forced to marry Lord Burton and spend a lifetime of misery in his household.

Yet how was it her body ignited beneath her enemy's caress when Burton's touch filled her with horrible misgivings? Surely the opposite should be true. Burton was a member of the ton, the pirate wasn't. Was she doomed to end up on the streets, cast out of society? She couldn't allow it to happen. She needed a plan.

First, it was imperative that she contact Mrs. Mortimer. She'd been told her childhood governess was in another cabin. But with a guard posted at her door, how would she be able to find her? Her gaze scanned the captain's cabin until a thought sparked her into motion. Hurrying over to the captain's desk, she pored over the various papers there, hoping to find a blueprint of the ship. Once found and researched, she was sure it would provide information she needed to locate Morty and collect her. From there, she and Mrs. Mortimer could escape using one of the gigs above deck.

Yes, it was a sound plan. Once she arrived in Spain, she would locate Aunt Lydia and use her connections to report the
Striker
's activities, to include turn in the pirate who was a threat to more than her life.

• • •

Constance Danbury was going to be the death of him. Percy strolled out onto the
Striker
's deck and inhaled a lung's breath of salty air, letting the stinging breeze fill his nostrils and cool his ardor. He loved the sea, had felt a kinship to it since he'd enlisted in the navy as a young man — against his father's wishes and rules of the peerage — using a name that would not bring his father shame. It had taken years to mend the rift his rebellious act had caused within his family.

Percy wanted nothing more than to please his father, to make life right again for the old man. For many years, he'd consigned his soul to Simon Danbury, director of a secretive group of patriots bound to do anything within their power to protect England's shores and the country from within. No sacrifice had been too great. No deprivation too weighty. He'd willingly cast the mold of foppish Percival Avery in order to maintain his secret identity. The creation of his alter ego was his complete opposite in every way. Underneath his mask of disguise, nothing mattered but revenge. To members of society, publicly to his father and his many acquaintances, frivolity ruled the day. No one suspected he'd enlisted into Frink's ranks. His acquaintances thought him away on sabbatical, venturing to unknown lands before responsibilities tied him to London and his future role as the Seventh Duke of Blendingham.

Simon had never needed to ask for his assistance on this particular mission. He was the first to comprise his crew, the first to communicate with Whistler, Nelson's agent behind enemy lines. Though Whistler's identity remained secret from everyone but Simon, Percy believed the mole would be the driving force behind the capture of Celeste's killer. When the ill-timed message came stating that the
Octavia
was carrying precious cargo meant for the fox, Frink had jumped at the chance to claim the
Octavia
. No one doubted the captain meant to stash the cargo for himself. Others, including Simon and himself, believed Frink meant to deliver the bounty to his benefactor, the man pulling his purse strings. Is it any wonder that Frink was blindsided by the only thing aboard worth pilfering, Lady Constance? Was she the cargo meant for the fox? Did she have knowledge of the mole's identity?

He'd gone against Frink to save Constance's life and cast his mission into dangerously uncharted waters. Lady Constance was a hindrance to his cause. Her very presence in his cabin was further evidence he'd been so long without civilized companionship that he was easily blinded by desires of the flesh.

He had to refocus, turn his energy back to his quest. Frink was alive! Held in chains below, providing him a way to discover the source of the captain's fiendish byplay. And as he sailed north to return Constance home, he still had time to question Frink about Josiah Cane's whereabouts and his connection to the fox. Percy smiled. At last, he had something to look forward to. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

Steeling himself against the sway of the Striker as it cut through rough water, Percy nodded at Jacko, who appeared like clockwork at his side.

“There be a storm brewing. Will you be needing your sextant, sir?”

“Aye, Jacko. We're in for more than we bargained for, if my suspicions are correct.”

Percy lifted the mechanism to his eye and gazed out upon the expanse before them, relishing the breeze that tangled his unbound hair. Something twinged deep in his gut, a nagging question he couldn't quite answer. What were the odds that Lady Constance would be on the very ship Whistler had identified to Frink?

“Jacko?” he asked. Between them, he and Jacko had experienced enough deception that a scenario like this wouldn't come as a surprise.

“Aye, Captain.”

“Where's Frink now?”

“In the hold, sir. We figured, if we wanted him to make it to London alive, we'd have to segregate him from his crew.” Jacko's brow rose comically and he nodded his approval. “Many of the
Octavia
's men offered to guard him.”

Percy quirked his brow. “With good intentions, no doubt?”

“I'm sure that be the way of it, sir,” Jacko agreed with an impetuous smirk.

“Alert the guards, I'll be questioning the captain in a few hours.”

“Aye, sir. Has something happened?”

“I've encountered some new information,” he said, unwilling to divulge anything more at the moment.

Jacko sucked in his breath. “Tell me the girl isn't involved, sir.”

Percy wished someone would tell him the very same thing. Lifting the sextant to eye-level, Percy scanned the horizon, and then calculated their current position. They'd attacked the
Octavia
at the English Channel's widest girth. The wind was steady with occasional gusts that hinted a storm brewed just over the horizon. With a good wind, it would take eight days to reach London. Lowering the v-shaped contraption, he stared at the horizon with contempt, the futility of their situation hitting him full force. They'd be lucky if they beat the storm.