Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (3 page)

“Tell him I'll bring her myself.” His voice brokered no argument. Constance shrank back, afraid of what the combustive atmosphere would yield.

Apparently, she wasn't the only one who felt threatened. The smaller man let her go, mumbled something obscene, and moved quickly out of the room.

The devil stared at her for an inestimable time. “I've an eye for beauty and,” he paused, “I never forget a face.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she snapped.

First and foremost in her thoughts was the way the other men had raked her flesh with their beady eyes. To be alone with this dangerous man now surely meant he intended to ruin her. After all, he was no different from the others. How could he be? As the truth settled in Constance's mind, she wondered if this was what her mother had had to endure, fear, uncertainty, and desperation. Would she be as courageous? Swallowing hard, she hoped to survive the hours ahead without resorting to begging for death.

Remember, there can be no bargaining with pirates.
Her mother's final words cut her to the quick. Some lessons weren't meant to be learned.

The demon moved. He stood face to face with her now, though he was a head taller. His height posed a strategic problem. Should she try to resist, there would be no way to get around him.

“You're a beauty,” he admitted.

“Perhaps a physician should check your good eye,” she snapped.

He tossed his head back with laughter, then moved back toward the center of the room and quirked his brow. “Do you intend to slay your enemy with wit or a bed warmer?”

Censored by his amusement of her predicament, Constance sheathed her arms about her like a protective cocoon. He was but a few steps away. She was not safe by any means. He could attack at any time. Fearing that possibility, she watched him closely as he leaned on one of her trunks, his thigh straining against the dark fabric of his breeches. She closed her eyes, revolted that she'd been caught staring. But he was incredibly big, large enough to kill her with one tap of his hand. The fact that he could overpower her in seconds toppled any hopes she had of knocking him senseless.

“What is your name?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Who is doing the asking?”

His loud guffaw only exasperated her stubborn streak. The man was arrogant, a character trait similar to her father's. Constance understood pleading for her life, for Mrs. Mortimer's, would be useless. But she had few options left. If she expected to live, she would eventually be expected to give in to the rogue's demands or perish. She understood this better than most. Forcing a pirate into a bargain had backfired on her mother. Yet, this night she'd come full circle. It was now her turn to choose. Her mother had given her that right, shown her the true measure of courage. Could she do the same for Mrs. Mortimer, the woman who'd shown her every kindness and taken her mother's place in every way but one?

“It's customary to answer a question before asking one,” he parried.

He stood, his body a lithe predatory element she would be smart not to ignore. He moved closer, his eye never wavering from hers. Under his close scrutiny, she was vaguely aware of the struggling crew overhead, of the rocking of the ship beneath her, and the four walls of the cabin closing in. She was aware of his smell — musk, smoke, and wood, not like the grease, sulfur, and filth of the other men. The closer he ambled, the bigger, more daunting he became. Eventually, she had to crane her neck to look up into his face.

“What's your name?” he asked again.

Constance felt compelled to answer but her lips failed to comply. He was too close. He did not fit into the mold of her mother's attackers, men she vividly remembered through a child's eyes — dirty, toothless, and vile. This man, this blackguard, was dark where Lieutenant Guffald was light. He was menacing and willful, where her father exemplified dignity and social breeding. Constance shivered and pulled the wrap he'd given her closer together. Fearing the next few minutes, hours, she longed for her mother's strength. She was a lady, the daughter of a proud nobleman, a man who happened to be destitute but not by his own design. She'd been sheltered from cruelty, protected from diabolical men, until her father had been forced to make a deal with Lord Burton — until now. She could not give her real name. If it ever became known, the disgrace would be irreparable to her father's already tarnished image. But what answer could she give to appease this man's curiosity? And if she lied, and he discovered her ruse, what then?

“I expect a reply,” he stated.

Daring to hope she could buy herself more time, to find a way to escape her mother's same agonizing fate, Constance held her tongue.

“There is no place for you to go,” he said, an irritating grin spreading over his face.

She was trapped. For the first time in her life, Constance wondered why she hadn't married for money. In her stupidity, in her selfishness, she, the mouse, had escaped the buzzard only to get snatched by the hawk.

Constance scanned the length of the rogue's cock-sure stance, hands fisted at his hips, powerful legs braced apart as if he was one with the ship. He licked his lips. Against her will, she watched his tongue linger at the corner of his mouth.
He
was no gentleman, but neither was Lord Burton, a notable member of the ton, a man with a reputation built on false decency. Appearances, she reminded herself, could be deceiving. If that was true, could this man be anything different than what he appeared to be — her executioner?

“Come now. You're no mute. Speak up!”

“Very well, then. What kind of man preys upon a defenseless woman?” she asked.

“Defenseless? What do you call that tin pan you planted on Saracen's head?” he mocked.

“Evening the odds.” So the pirate they'd carried away was called Saracen. She mentally noted it. If she made it off the ship alive, she intended to have each and every one of these derelicts hunted down and prosecuted.

Fire sparked in his eye. “You're quick witted,” he said. “I'd laugh, if I didn't know foolishness could get you killed.”

Her lower lip trembled.

“Nod if you understand. Tell me you will heed my advice.”

“I'll do no such thing,” she countered, “until you give me your word you won't harm either of us.”

“Why would I do that?”

Her heart skipped a beat. His question could be taken two ways. Had he no intention of harming them or no intention to acquiesce to her request? Her voice quivered uncontrollably. “Only a disreputable man would ask that question.”

“Disreputable?” Laughter bubbled up from his chest. “I'd be dead if I wasn't.”

Don't trust a pirate, Constance.

“What's your name, blossom?” he asked, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “I must know who you are before I take you to my captain.”

Captain? Yes, he'd mentioned his captain earlier. Her heart pounded with renewed fright. What would become of her if she had to face an even darker foe? The stakes had suddenly risen.

He leaned closer, close enough to affect the nerve-endings on the surface of her skin with each breath. Close enough for her to see muscles twitch in his scruffy jaw. He angled his head and studied her. “Tell me your name. I cannot help you until I know the truth.”

Constance straightened her spine and lied. “I am Elizabeth Duncan, Admiral Duncan's daughter. If you lay a hand on me, the Royal Navy will see to it that you hang from an iron cage at Tilbury Point until you rot. How disreputable will you be with a noose around your neck?”

The cocksure devil scowled. “Admiral Duncan's daughter, eh?”

She raised her chin a notch. “Yes.”

A smirk drew up the corners of his mouth. His breath was amiable as he leaned in closer to speak. “Liar! Admiral Duncan is dead and his daughters are beyond their prime.”

Shock raced through her system. He'd called her bluff. But how did a pirate know intimate details of Admiral Duncan's life, or have personal information about his daughters? Unless …

“Do I need to point out that lying to me or anyone else on this vessel will get you killed? Now,” he said between clenched teeth, “the truth. What are you doing on this ship?”

He hovered over her lips. Her lungs fought for air. What was he capable of? She did not trust him. She could
never
trust a pirate!

“I … I'm traveling to Spain,” she babbled uncontrollably when her nerves gave way.

“Why?” he demanded.

“To visit my aunt.”

“For what purpose?” he pressed.

A man like him would never understand. Constance took a deep breath. “'Tis a family issue.”

“You're obviously a woman of good breeding. What could possibly be so bad that you would risk sailing to Spain for it?”

The purpose of her journey was none of his affair. “You're a pirate. What could
you
possibly know about a woman with
my
breeding?”

Her barb apparently found its mark. He grimaced. “You're quite the prize.”

He stared long and hard and then flashed a boyish grin, exposing teeth surprisingly white and straight against his battle drawn face. “Since you insist on being stubborn, I'm at a loss as to what to do with you.”

He stepped back and beat his thigh with a leather glove, the staccato ominous in the small confines of the room. Had the time finally come for violence? His steely gaze assured her she'd receive no leniency. And rightfully so. He was everything she'd been brought up to hate: greedy, violent, and unpredictable.

“Is it war you want?” His gaze flicked toward the door as if sensing her urge to run.

“I want my freedom,” she confessed.

“Freedom comes with a price,” he said. “Freedom has to be earned.” He crossed the space between them and grabbed her chin, tilting her face right, then left. “You remind me of someone.”

Constance bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering, and winced, forgetting that she'd split it falling from her bunk. His eye narrowed in on her discomfort, and for a moment, she thought compassion flickered in his gaze. She licked her lip, tasting blood.

“One of your strumpets, no doubt.” She regretted the words as soon as she'd said them.

“They would be more imaginative,” he said, quirking his brow.

Was he mocking her? “Do your worst, you despicable lout!” she spat.

“Aye, you have a harlot's tongue in that virginal body of yours. What else have you got in there?” he said, reaching for her waist.

“You'll rot in hell before I behave like a harlot for you.”

He chuckled. “Promises, promises.” He was nearer than a man ought to be. So close, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against the thin material covering her breasts.

“Why are you so determined to conceal your identity? I assure you, you have nothing to fear.”

“Liar,” she sobbed.

“To believe otherwise will cause you unnecessary pain.” The demon was gone. This man seemed almost — human.

“Let me go,” she pleaded.

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

“You're insane!”

“More like a man of purpose.”

“You're a pirate! Not a real man!”

He rewarded her with a scowl. “How would you know the difference?” The look in his eye dared her to insult him again. He cupped her face, forcing her to look up into his powerful stare. “A bigger world than you know exists. In a moment, you'll be forced to embrace it, whether you're ready or not. Believe me, you'll think twice before opening that delectable mouth of yours again.”

“You're a monster,” she cried.

“You aren't listening. It's dangerous to tempt anyone aboard the
Striker
and that is where you're bound. Angering one of the crew could very well get you killed — or worse.”

He was warning her. Did that mean he meant to protect her? “What is it you are trying to say?”

His gaze flicked to the doorway. He hailed a man stationed there and ordered him topside. When the man disappeared, he produced a rope and promptly tied her hands together. “I do not count myself among those who would take an unwilling woman. If you are who I suspect you to be, you'll listen to my every word and follow my every command.”

“How can I trust you?” she asked.

A cough sounded from the doorway and the interruption deferred his answer. “Frink wants the lady topside.”

“Captain Frink?” The words fled her mouth before she could stop them.

“Yes,” he said, his voice like a nail in an empty coffin.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the horrific memories of burying an empty casket. Her stomach recoiled and her body stiffened as she lost all hope for pardonable ransom. If Frink were at the helm of the pirate vessel,
Striker
, she would find no small amount of compassion.

Constance gazed up into the rogue's face. Could she trust him? Did she have any other choice?

“The captain's waitin'. You know he doesn't like to be kept waitin', bos'un,” the man at the doorway said.

“Neither do I,” the devil replied.

Constance didn't want to die.

The grip on her hands slackened as the brigand led her to the center of the cabin. Fear of what awaited above deck pierced her heart, stiffening her limbs. What would become of her at Captain Frink's dispatch? Closing her eyes, knowing she would have to face her mother's murderer again, she inhaled one last calming breath as she was pushed forward.

“Killing you does not fit into my plans,” the one-eyed rogue said, his hot breath teasing the flesh at her neck.

“What plans?” She feared the answer. Pirates always had devious plans.

“Bos'un! We've only got a matter of minutes before all hell breaks loose.”