Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (6 page)

Stars sparkled above as he deftly swung himself up and out of the hold. For a moment, the outline of his body was blocked from sight. The ship groaned. Water swirled like a whirlpool about her. The momentary joy she felt upon seeing him free of the chaos beneath them, knowing he'd promised to save her, fled as a wave crashed over the hatch dousing him with a terrifying sea wash.

Water flooded over her head, temporarily submerging her. Constance struggled to keep her grip, but her hands slipped. She sank, swallowing her fill of seawater as she tried to claw her way back up to life-giving air.

The willowy form of a woman appeared.
Take hold of my hand, Constance. Don't give up. Grab my hand!

Constance kicked her feet and stretched out her hand. But the hand she grabbed didn't belong to her mother, but a devil with a worrisome snarl. The brute yanked her upward and onto the
Octavia
's sloping deck.

“You're a lot of trouble.”

“Mrs. M-Mortimer,” she said, choking out the seawater she'd swallowed.

He slapped her on the back. “Your maid is already aboard the
Striker
, along with Guffald and Captain Collins.”

“Make way for the captain!” an order sounded in the semi-darkness.

The ruffian — lifted her and carried her to the edge of the
Octavia
's deck. “No! You can't mean to — ”

“Grab the girl, Jacko,” he ordered, throwing her overboard. “Clear the ship!”

She landed with a big splash, and then found herself clawing mindlessly at water again until she was quickly fished out of the sea by two sneering crewmen. Once inside the boat, she glanced furiously over her shoulder and held her breath as the brigand dove into the sea, effortlessly swimming to the side of the gig, where he grabbed hold of a proffered arm and swung himself deftly aboard.

“She's goin' down by the head, Captain.”

“Aye,” he said. “Get us clear, Jacko, before she takes us under.”

“Row, men! Steer us free!” Jacko bellowed. But as the distance grew between the boat and the sinking ship, Constance wondered if drowning wouldn't have been the better choice.

• • •

Jacko's bark stung the night air almost as much as salt in his bad eye.

Percy's men heaved forward and back to spin the oars, muscles straining against the currents. He sat at the head of the gig and watched the
Octavia
tip bow to stern. The sea devoured her whole, taking Frink and all connection to Celeste's killer down to the bottom of Davy Jones's locker.

Irritated that he'd come so close to learning the identity of Frink's benefactor only to lose all he'd worked so hard for in the time it took to sink a ship, his eyes settled on the bedraggled Lady Constance. He wanted to strike out at her for coming between him and what he wanted most in the world. But as Her Ladyship tried desperately to maintain her modesty, he saw the purity he'd long ago vowed to protect. Celeste, his innocent sister, in need of his help, her limp body ravaged by disease after being sacrificed to the highest bidder and left upon the altar of pestilence. He turned away and cast his gaze out to sea, content remnants of the man he used to be still resided, however hidden, within him.

When, at last, his emotions settled, Percy peered across the gig and searched the faces of his remaining crew, men who refused to leave without their captain. Ten worked the oars. As their commander, he could taste their bitter disappointment. They'd placed their lives in his hands, endured endless cruelty, followed every order he ever gave and he'd led them to this — failure. Yet, none of their gazes accused. None seemed to care they'd wasted nearly a year of their lives for naught.

Constance coughed uncontrollably, diverting his attention. His wary eye searched out her form as she stretched to gag over the side of the boat. Salt water did not sit well on the stomach. Thusly, the little fool was sick. He scrutinized her, head to foot. In the moonlight, he could see that her coloring had slightly paled, though her body was primed for attack as she gazed about prepared to strike the first man who came near. Scantily clothed, eyes wide, she 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 the
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?

• • •

In the small confines of the captain's 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.

The
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.