Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (9 page)

Shaking her head to clear it, Constance focused on several voices streaming through a slight opening in the doorway. One, in particular, seemed vaguely familiar.

“I've built up quite a hunger.”

Her eyes widened with recognition when she sighted the tall, dark blackguard entering her cabin. Her heartbeat jumped at the sound of
his
voice. She wanted to flee, to find a way out of the tiny confines of the room, but before she could choose an option, the door closed behind him, cutting off any avenue of escape.

The menacing man leaned against the closed door. He took his time staring at her, and then stepped forward. Dressed in black from head to foot, the pirate glared at her with a knowing gaze. His open appraisal made her all too aware she was in
his
room,
his
bed. Instinctively, she gripped the sheet higher before realizing it was but a modest partition between them, one he could easily cast aside should he so choose.

“Little blossom, that sheet will not protect you if I decide to delve between your legs.” At her loud gasp, he laughed.

Setting aside her modesty, Constance slipped her feet to the edge of the bunk, intent on proving she wasn't afraid of him. She wanted desperately to prove she would not be subjugated. But she gasped again, this time with shock.

“Where are my clothes?”

“You'll not be needing them,” he said.

She struggled to breathe. “What do you mean I'll not be needing my clothes?”

Even before the question came out of her mouth, his meaning was clear. An abysmal vulnerability unlike any she'd ever experienced forced a heated blush into her cheeks. He stepped closer, looming above her like a hawk stalking prey. She shrank back, scurrying on her hands and feet until her back braced against the wall, intent on putting as much space between herself and the deplorable scoundrel as possible.

“Nothing can come between us, Constance, including clothes.”

His alarming grin proved he meant to ensure every word. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow as her mind labored for a response. Something wicked churned in her stomach as her mind labored over a memory, the sensation of the two of them without clothes, their bodies scandalously intertwined, his warm fingers, comforting touch, and his heart pounding underneath her ear.

“How do you know my name?” she squeaked, trying desperately to block out the condemning images.

“Did you honestly expect me to believe your lies about being Admiral Duncan's daughter? The man died quite seasoned. His daughters most assuredly wed and bedded before you were born.” His penetrating gaze darted over her body. “How old are you?” he asked. “I wager nineteen — at most.”

He moved closer, his knee resting on the edge of the bunk. Reaching out to grab a lock of her hair, he added, “Too young to be Duncan's daughter,” he continued, “and far prettier.”

Unsettled, she snatched back her hair. Indignantly, she spat, “You irritating simpleton! My age is of no consequence to you.”

“Yet you claim to be one of Admiral Duncan's daughters. Who is the simpleton?”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“If I must,” he said with a wave of his hand, acting as if the effort drained him. But it was the look in his eye that warned her not to insult him again.

She quivered. He stood and crossed the room until he was positioned by the door again. He leaned against it and crossed his arms over his chest, once again causing her eyes to feast on his toned, lean body. The black shirt he wore accentuated his weathered skin. His dark hair, mustache, beard, and eye patch emphasized the reticent set of his jaw. His hair flowed loosely about his shoulders. The red scarf around his forehead stood out like the blush of a cardinal attracting a mate. For the first time, she noticed a gold hoop in his left ear as he dropped his head to the side to observe her with disdain.

“Where am I?” Her voice cracked. She hated being vulnerable, hated herself for thinking the man slightly handsome.

His mustached lip curled upward as if he'd been waiting for such a cue. He stepped away from the door.

“You're aboard the
Striker
. Don't you remember?”

She turned away from him and gazed out the spacious window to replay the previous night's events in her mind. Her heart raced as bone-chilling images proved she had much to be grateful for where he was concerned. She averted his gaze, hoping to hide the fear listing her heart. Indeed, she remembered all too well that pirates had stormed through her cabin door. She recalled the first time she'd set eyes upon him. She remembered Captain Collins and that heartless brigand, Frink, tearing at her clothes. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. Light and moist, it tickled her skin, reminding her of being weighted down by water. She remembered nearly drowning. She remembered hearing her mother's voice. She remembered
him
.

“I remember … ,” she admitted, “you saved me from drowning.”

“And I brought you to my cabin,” he finished for her.

“Where's Captain Frink? Is this his ship?”

“Do not worry your pretty little head about him. He'll do you no more harm.”

“And Mrs. Mortimer?” Fear took hold when he did not answer. She only vaguely remembered her dearest governess being carried out of the cabin. What had happened to her? Had she been passed from one man to the next like a communal jug of rum?

He approached her slowly, sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned closer, making her heart flutter. “Mrs. Mortimer?”

“Yes,” she replied. “My traveling companion. Is she all right? Is she alive?”

“That crafty old witch is fine. She's in another cabin.” He held up his hand when she began to ask another question. “Rest assured she is well.” He placed his finger on her lips to silence her when she tried to speak.

Constance brushed his finger away. “Why are we separated? Why aren't you keeping us together?”

“What joy would there be in that for me?”

She wanted to scream. The vile man was a brute ten times crueler than Captain Frink. “What about Captain Collins?”

“He did not make it.”

Her heart lurched. Didn't she have anyone to turn to? “Lieutenant Guffald?”

He paused. “Alive.”

“You're lying!” Something flashed in his eyes when she mentioned the lieutenant's name, making her disbelieve him.

His eye instantly narrowed. “Your interest in the man is commendable. He cuts quite a figure walking around in his blue coat and shiny buttons. However, you will not see him again.”

“What are you implying?”

He leaned closer. “Only that your vow of innocence grows thin and I am weary of your games.”

“Games? I assure you I am not playing any sort of game. I am not the depraved soul here.”

“No?” he challenged.

“Who have I killed?” she snapped.

The pirate's eye flickered like molten gold, and then turned mysteriously dark. Who was this infuriating man? If he was like that black-hearted killer, Frink, she dared not drop her guard.

“Being in the wrong place at the wrong time altered your fate,” he said matter-of-factly.

His mouth thinned, yet he remained silent. As much as she wanted to hate him for what he was, the morning light opposed her notion that he was as cold as ice. And, he had saved her life, though she didn't understand why. Constance knew she could not allow that fact to alter her view of him. It was bad enough that the man's scowl lent him strange appeal. Were he any other man, perhaps one at a pompous ball where she could pick and choose from among those present, she would have danced with him a thousand dances. His physique and stature proved he would be incredibly agile. But she wasn't at a ball, and she hadn't met him under the best circumstances. There was no point comparing him to men of the ton, men with civilized standards. He was a pirate — vile, loathsome, and untrustworthy.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered gently.
You are here because of him. You are alive because he would not let you drown.
Indeed, he had saved her life. But he'd also stripped her of her dignity and imprisoned her in his cabin. Her reputation was in tatters and she hadn't yet set foot upon England's shore. She could ill afford to be attracted to the man in the way a waif feels beholden to anyone who gives him a farthing or morsel of food. In the midst of her father's financial woes, her virtue was all she had left.

He coughed, alerting her that he awaited her response. Embarrassed to be sitting naked in front of a man and eager to be rid of him, Constance withdrew her eyes and cast them upon the floor where black fabric laid in a heap at his feet. She scanned the remnants of his tattered shirt, and then focused upon the linen material near it. Her brows knit together. What was her shift and night wrap doing on the floor, stripped into pieces? What had happened after he brought her aboard ship? Had he torn off her clothes and taken her against her will? She couldn't remember. Why couldn't she remember? She didn't feel any different.

Mustering up her courage, she asked him, “Did … did you take advantage of me last night?”

“Would you believe me if I denied it?” he asked.

“Tell me the truth,” she pleaded near tears.

He laughed in spite of her distress. “Truth? I could ask the same of you,” he said. “You seem incapable of telling me who you really are.”

“You're a pirate!” she accused. “What do you expect?” Wasn't it obvious she couldn't trust him? How could he expect her to reveal intimate details of her life? Her head reeled with images, sensations. “I can't remember anything,” she admitted. “What did you do to me last night? Did you” — her voice cracked — “sleep with me?”

Something wicked flashed in his dark brown depths and her gut twisted. He was hiding something. She held her breath, anticipating his answer as he dropped to his knee on the bed. She fully expected him to admit that he'd taken her virginity.

“You expect me to tell the truth when you are unwilling to give me your real name?” An unbridled smirk twisted his lips. “That's amusing.”

“Yes. Yes, I do expect the truth, but it's obvious I'm not going to get it,” she said.

“All right then,” he sighed. Relief flooded through her. “Aye. I slept with you.”

A knowing glint warned her he would do so again, if he could.

“You ruined me?” she squealed.

It couldn't be so. Constance searched her memories but came up empty, finding no images, memories, feelings, soreness, that would lead her to believe he spoke the truth. If she had been violated, wouldn't that have left an indelible mark upon her body? She'd heard tales from the servants about a woman's first time. It was supposed to be a painful experience. Unmindful of the sheet covering her nudity, she balled her fists and proceeded to pummel him. The thin veil proceeded to fall to her waist, revealing the horrible bruise marring her breast.

He held her at arm's length. “You asked for the truth and I gave it,” he stated. “Now it's your turn. Tell me, who did that to you?” he said, his attention riveted on her bosom.

Constance shivered. Never before had she been stared at so intimately or been so affected by a man's touch. The pirate's eye blazed with fury, sizzling every inch of her flesh, contrary to his gentle touch. The power he wielded over her with but a look frightened, and thrilled. Was he actually angry at the man who'd manhandled her? There was no need to number her woes, that she'd been promised to an abusive oaf who'd sought to claim her without consent and before the wedding night. It was unseemly to be alone with a man, but Lord Burton had found a way to sequester her. And now she feared what would happen if she returned home and Burton discovered her ruination. The man was a viper who would promise her father anything. He only wanted her for her good name and what that association would do for his status in society.

“For all I know, you did this to me,” she spat.

“Or perhaps you're not as innocent as you appear.”

She wanted to cosh him for his lewd accusation. His grip was tight, cutting off her circulation however. His eye bore into her, blazing a path to her soul. He let go of her hands and reached for one of the curls draping over her shoulder, worrying the strands between his fingers.

“Your hair is the color of wheat,” he said. “It's been so long since I've seen — ”

His voice came from a distance, unlike the one she'd grown to fear. There was sorrow and pain wrapped in his voice and his nearness elicited a desire within her to reach out and flex her fingers over the broad expanse of his shoulders. She ached to be comforted, to comfort, a matter that needed to be quickly remedied before things got out of hand.

“What would a pirate know about wheat?”

He stared hard into her eyes. Part of her pitied
his
kind. Pirating offered no home, no gentilities to warm the heart or hearth. He would never know love, never put down roots in the earth or be able to stop running from the law. She wanted him to pay for what he'd done to her, for the agony he'd inflicted on others, and if that was a pirate's lot then so be it. He'd ruined her plans. Spain was out of the question now. A proper marriage was out of the question. She would be forced to return to her father in disgrace, rather than with the means to salvage his reputation.

'Tis a pirate's lot to die young, only a shell of the man he could have become.
Was this to be his end?

The corner of his lip twitched, jolting her from her musings. Had he read her thoughts? There was an evident tick in his jaw and her eyes focused on his full, moist, bearded lips. His breath was enticingly warm and sent shivers of anticipation across her skin.

“I will kill you when I get the chance,” she vowed as he leaned closer.

“What I've done has been for your own good, blossom. Now cover yourself before I get other ideas.” She followed the blazing track of his gaze. “I cannot guarantee that I will be able to maintain my good behavior.”