Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (2 page)

“No,” Mrs. Mortimer pleaded as Constance reached for the bolt. “Guffald told us to stay in this room and here we shall remain.”

Activity ignited in the companionway. Heavy footfalls sounded. Constance's hand dropped away from the bolt. Mrs. Mortimer jumped with fright as loud obscenities rose from the corridor. Merciless pounding beat on one door to the next, and the next, a staccato that intensified. Constance put a fist to her mouth to stifle a shriek. Just when she thought she could take no more, a hysterical scream pierced the night. Mrs. Mortimer's scream.

Constance covered the woman's mouth and waited in the darkness for their inevitable discovery. A deathly silence impaled them. Then, as though drawn like ravenous bees, their attackers massed outside the cabin door. Constance focused her stare on the bolt, wordlessly urging it to hold fast. Voices converged, insistent, merciless, before an ominous object pelted the door, cutting the wooden exterior with a loud whack.

“They're hacking down the door,” Constance whispered. “We've got no time to lose. We've got to protect ourselves.”

Mrs. Mortimer snatched at her clothing. “Constance,” she hissed.

Her nightshift tore in the woman's grasp as she broke away to search the room for a weapon. Rummaging quickly through their trunks, Constance came up empty-handed. Nerve-wracked, she scanned the room until she spied a bed warmer poking out of a pile of debris their belongings had formed near one of the walls inside the cabin. She picked up the copper contraption and held it close to her chest, then returned to Mrs. Mortimer's side. Ushering her companion into the far corner of the room, she had every intention of hiding long enough to plant the bed warmer onto their attackers' heads.

The walls vibrated. The cabin door groaned. Shrinking back, Constance fought back tears as she flinched with every agonizing wallop on the wooden portal.

The Lord will save us, Constance. Have no fear.
Her mother's fateful words filled her with determination.

Them lives what saves themselves.
Odd that she also heard the advice of the pirate who'd stood against the horde in order to protect her years ago. She was only alive due to the ambitious challenge he'd given his captain.

“We've tempted the devil,” Mrs. Mortimer sobbed.

Wood groaned, forewarning the cabin door's collapse. Constance squeezed her eyes tightly shut as Mrs. Mortimer recited the Lord's Prayer, sobbing between each verse. Her actions brought back another memory of her mother chanting the prayer to calm her tears while they'd waited for pirates to escort them to their deaths. Yet, despite the horrific expression on her mother's face, there had been hope, a burgeoning will to fight to the last, to see her only child survive unscathed.

Constance thought of her father. He needed her, above and beyond using her as a means to save the family's reputation. More importantly, she knew he could not withstand the sorrow of losing another woman he loved.

Wood splintered around the door hinges. Constance's heart thumped wildly against her ribs.
If
Captain Collins were dead, there would be no leniency. She and Mrs. Mortimer would find themselves in gruesome circumstances. At that realization, fear unlike any she'd ever known wedged in her throat, making it harder to breathe inside the thick and oppressive cabin. Her heart beat to the hammering rhythm of her enemy's labors until the thrashing suddenly stopped.

The calm before the storm.

Constance held her breath and prayed for hopeful pardon, for an angel of mercy to champion her cause. The voice she heard in response to her prayers bellowed loudly in the bowels of the ship — deep, menacing, more ferocious and demanding than any other sound she'd ever heard before. Orders dispatched. Boots scraped against the floor, eager to fulfill the directive. A foreboding chill saturated her thin shift in response. Prepared for the worst, Constance stared at the door and took her place behind it, bed warmer in hand.

Tears swept over her cheeks. “You've been a real mother to me, Morty,” she whispered. “No matter what happens, I shall always be grateful.”

Mrs. Mortimer sobbed quietly and nodded, incapable of speech. Constance gazed down at her shaking fingers, a grim reminder that her entire body rebelled. All that kept her from a deplorable fate was a wooden partition and one long-handled bed warmer. Sweltering in the suffocating cabin, she watched the hatches give way until the door splintered with a resonant bang. Shards of wood blasted into the room above the reinforced bolt, which remained surprisingly intact. Mrs. Mortimer shrieked as a large ringed hand appeared and reached deftly through the hole created in the door to grab the bolt and lift it off of the hinge.

Now, unobstructed, the rest of the door deteriorated, splintering forward against the tanned man's weight. Strutting into the room, the burly man kicked debris out of his way and entered the cabin. He crouched low, searching the darkness, prepared for resistance. Sensing this was her only chance, Constance wielded the bed warmer high in the darkness and slammed it over the man's skull. He crashed to the floor in a heap.

Desperately, she lifted the copper monstrosity to strike again. But just as she swung to hit the second man, a meaty fist swatted it away. This man immediately focused his gaze upon her. A patch covered his eye and his scowl provided him a rebellious, angry countenance. Caught in the man's spiteful stare, Constance recognized the lustful turn of his thoughts as if succumbing to a descending flood with no apparent foothold. She stood her ground as the man's eye swooped up and down her body.

Behind him, pirates moved in to pillage the room, laughing riotously, desiring a go at the “appetizing wenches.” But the man before her extended his hand into the air, bringing them to a halt.

Constance fixed vulnerable eyes upon her enemies. Large men with heaving chests and torn clothing, spattered with blood. Captain Collins and his crew must have proven their worth, given the appearance of these men. That thought alone brought her some amount of hope that members of Collins's crew might still be alive and yet able to help her.

Suddenly aware the men were undressing her with their eyes, Constance peered downward at her state of undress and righted her torn shift across her breasts.

Clearing his throat, the broad-shouldered man she'd tried to flummox motioned to his mates. “The way this cabin had been fortified, I expected to find the Queen.” Laughter erupted. “You handle that
weapon
expertly, lass. What else can you do?”

She frowned. “Come forward and I'll show you.”

“This one's a fighter,” he announced absurdly. His voice was intense, commanding. The pirate's lip curled, as if he challenged her to rebuke him.

Constance refused to cower beneath the man's impossible stare. She tossed her head back, firmly intent on surviving whatever these pirates forced upon her. Quirking her brow, she raised the bed warmer. She wasn't afraid to fight. Dying would end ten years of misery and guilt. It was the minutes and hours before death that frightened her.

Finding her voice, Mrs. Mortimer screeched into the void, “Leave us be!”

“Never fear,” the demon said. “We've never misused a wench who didn't welcome the attention.” A buoyant cheer rose, forcing a heart-wrenching sob from the fearful woman. “You may be common,” the blackguard stated, looking Constance up and down, “but
we
aren't particular, are we men?”

She did not miss his emphasis on “we.” Immediately, she wondered if they were to be passed from one man to another like common doxies. Constance lifted her chin another notch.
Common, indeed!

“Your desire to fight is natural,” he assured. “But I promise you, the temptation will pass.”

The leader paused, wanting her to digest the futility of the situation. And the glint in his eye promised he'd enjoy reaping his reward. But then he did something completely unexpected. He tilted his head sideways and stepped forward, his hand held up to suggest he wouldn't hurt her. In disbelief, she positioned the bed warmer between them.

“Don't come any closer,” she warned.

His eye narrowed. He took another step closer, slapped the bed warmer aside, ignoring her threat, and scrutinized her, head to foot.

“I stand corrected,” he said, placing surprisingly warm fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head left, then right, as if searching her features for something — familiar. “You, my little blossom, are anything
but
common.”

A frown creased his brow. He pulled away, breaking contact, and her skin burned where his fingers had been. Shock infiltrated her senses. Had he recognized her? Why, the very idea was absurd. He was a pirate! It wasn't as if they frequented the same social circles. And yet something
had
registered between them. She'd felt it in his gaze, his touch. But she was given no time to dwell on her absurd thoughts however, because he turned away and addressed the men in the room.

He spoke loudly to the brigands. “Search the room. Report whatever you find to me,
then
the captain.”

The rogue and his men pilfered through her belongings, scattering petticoats and stockings about the room as if they were rags. Temporarily forgotten, Constance focused on escape. A captain was mentioned. How many others were in charge? And what greater misery waited above deck?

She followed the leader's movements. What part had he played in the attack upon the
Octavia?
The fact that he might have killed Lieutenant Guffald or Captain Collins hit her full force. His size and skill certainly proved him capable of performing such a sickening feat. And yet there was something about him …

Fabric ripped. Mrs. Mortimer shrieked, startling Constance away from her speculations about the man. But it was too late. The thieves had torn the hem of her green lined riding habit and were only seconds away from discovering her money pouch, which held the last valuable farthing she'd saved to procure transportation to Aunt Lydia's home. Without those funds, she and Mrs. Mortimer would be destitute.

The one-eyed brigand cocked his head sideways as she stepped forward to intercept the garment.

“Stay back,” he warned. His voice was dagger sharp.

He stretched out a well-muscled arm to bar her way and Constance watched her future fade before her eyes as one of the rogues ripped into the wool cloth. Grinning, the rotten-mouthed man produced the pouch and threw it into the one-eyed pirate's hand. Satisfied, the jackal produced a lop-sided grin, tossed the purse, weighed it, nodded, and ordered his lackey to take the money topside.

With nothing left to distract them, her captors turned away from her to plunder another one of her trunks. Constance stood by helplessly as one by one, men filtered in and out of the room, passing along information to their leader about the melee above. Clothed in black, wearing tall Hessian boots, the overseeing pirate loomed larger than life in her cabin, his dark, wavy hair draping away from his beard at the slightest tilt of his head. His leather eye patch, held in place by a blood-red scarf, gave him a sinful demonic air that made Constance quiver. His facial features, concealed as they were beneath a mustache and beard, kept her from judging the man's character. From head to toe, the blaggard was a frightening specimen. She knew it would do no good to beg and plead for clemency, though she feared she was but moments away from resorting to those tactics.

She had to escape. But how? The room was too small to rush by him without getting snagged by an arm. Men shuffled about in the hatchway, preventing her passage. She'd be a fool to think she could outmaneuver men who'd been trained to scuttle a ship and wreak havoc on human life. Was escape even possible?

“Plotting a getaway, eh?” he asked, while studying the state of his fingernail. Had she been that obvious? “Don't try anything foolish. That could get you killed.”

Did he think her a fool? Did he expect her to follow him blindly to the side of the ship and obey his command to jump or worse, succumb to a pirate's lust? No. If she was going to die, she would rather die struggling to survive, like her mother. Her heart sank as she remembered how terribly wrong her mother's plan had gone. But had she had any other choice? She shivered at the thought as the brigand's eye bore into hers. He gave his head a negative shake as if reading her thoughts — again. Time stilled as she waited for him to tell her where she fit into his plans. Finally, he frowned. His demonical gaze brought an unwelcome flush to her cheeks as he moved forward. She flinched, instinctively backing away.

His laughter ricocheted off the ceiling as he tossed her a wrap. “No harm will come to you as long as you do as I say,” he said.

Constance placed her arms through the linen sleeves and pulled the wrap closed, thankful for some measure of modesty. Two men entered the cabin, spoke quietly with the tyrant, looked at her, smirked, and then left. Concerned for their safety, Constance drew Mrs. Mortimer close, making sure to shield the woman who'd mothered her to adulthood. But as they clung together in earnest, praying silently, a short-legged pirate walked forward and snatched the woman from her arms.

“No!” she cried, daring not to let go of Mrs. Mortimer's hand.

Morty whimpered. “God be with you, child.” And then she was gone, spirited out the door without a backward glance.

Constance stood quietly listening to Morty's ranting curses as the woman was carried through the passageway and up the stairs to the deck. Left the primary focus of the wicked devil, she didn't know how to react. Lord Burton paled in comparison to the confident killer standing before her.

A lean man with rotting teeth seized her by the arm at that moment, nearly pulling her off her feet. She screamed.

“She stays!” the one-eyed man commanded.

“The captain wants this chit topside,” the foul man challenged.