My Fallen Angel (27 page)

She stood in the bath, her graceful, delectable body rising like a sea-nymph above the water.

A groan rose low in his throat, his body hardening. A soapsud clung to the side of her breast, another to her abdomen. He watched her, entranced.

“Garrick,” she whispered softly, “don’t send me away.”

Oh, how he wished he didn’t have to. His wanting was a physical ache, yet more than that. Standing there by her side, he could almost feel the crackling energy that bound them together and entwined them. For the first time in his life, Garrick experienced a want unlike any he’d ever felt. He wanted her now.

And then she leaned toward him, one wet hand coming to rest against his face. “Love me, Garrick.”

He closed his eyes, knowing he was a doomed man.

“Damn you, Lucy,” he groaned just before he crushed her to him.

She raised her head for his kiss, accepted his assault willingly, drew his head down, and twined her hands in his hair. Their lips met, and suddenly everything spun out of control. Her mouth opened and every thought fled from his mind as he flicked his tongue inside her velvety wetness.

Sweet. God, she tastes sweet.

No,
a voice inside warned him.
Don’t do this. Don’t risk it all….

An account executive by day and a romance writer by night, Pamela blames her wicked sense of humor and off-beat stories on the amount of Froot Loops she consumes. Pamela lives in Northern California where she is owned by a Rottweiler in a Pomeranian’s body named Rufus; her horse, PC; and an African Grey parrot named Prinny. In 1998, RWA nominated her for a Golden Heart, the “Oscar” for unpublished romance writers. That nomination led to the sale of My Fallen Angel. She would love to hear from readers. Contact her at: [email protected] or at P.O. Box 23869, San Jose, California 95153.

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Garrick Asquith-Wolf was fighting for his life, and loving every moment of it.

Rain ran in rivulets down his face, his shirt a cold second skin. The ship lurched beneath his feet, making it difficult to stand. Yet through it all a grin split his face from ear to ear. He thrust his sword at his opponent, missed, drew back and thrust again. All around him men fought similar battles, but Garrick ignored the stench of blood and fear. Every muscle ached, his arms burned, sweat mingled with the rain trickling down his face. This was what he lived for, his mission in life: ridding the seas of pirate scum.

“Give up yet, Tully?” he jeered at his opponent.

Tully St. Clair, one of the most feared pirates on the Atlantic Ocean, sneered right back, his black eyesgleaming in the cloudy light. “I’ll see ye in hell first, Wolf.”

Fat drops of rain pelted Garrick as his grin widened. He swiped them away with a blood-spattered hand. “Let me know what it’s like, then.”

“You’ll know first,” Tully shot back, sword raised.

Garrick had just enough time to lift his own before Tully swung. His palms stung at the clash of the two blades. Once. Twice. Then again and yet again Tully lashed out. Garrick took a step back.

And slipped on the rain-slick deck.

His breath escaped him as his back hit the deck. He couldn’t breathe, fought to take in even the tiniest sip of air. Tully grinned evilly. His blade glinted as he raised it above his head.

Garrick rolled. Tully screeched. The blade sunk into wood.

“Damn ye,” Tully cried.

“It’s you who’s damned,” Garrick managed to wheeze. Blade in hand, he pulled himself to his feet with a strand of frayed rope that hung from the mast.

They charged each other. Bits of sail and splintered wood littered the deck amidst the bodies of fallen comrades. Garrick pushed the images from his mind. Thrust. Swing. Parry. The rhythm blurred.

Then he noticed a subtle difference in Tully’s fighting: His blade wobbled in the air, the hilt moved in his palm, the tip hung a little lower.

His opponent grew weak.

The realization was power. With renewed strength Garrick brought his blade down. Tully’s eyes flickedwith momentary fear as he was backed against the ship’s rail. One more jab and Garrick had him bent over the blood-splattered wood.

“Arghh,” Tully bellowed a heartbeat later. His free hand clutched at the ragged gash across his cheek. “Ye’ll pay fer that!” But the fear in Tully’s scurvy gaze belied the words. So did the blood on his hand. He knew he was a beaten man.

Garrick knew it as well. He swung his blade in a wide arc. The two swords connected with a bone-rattling crack and Garrick saw Tully’s grip loosen. Wielding the sword with all his expertise, he closed in for the kill.

Tully’s sword flipped through the air and disappeared over the rail to be swallowed by the frothing waves below.

Stunned disbelief contorted his opponent’s face. Garrick threw back his head and roared with confident, victorious laughter. Drunk with power, he raised his sword above his head. Before he could bring it down, Tully grasped a piece of rigging, swung himself over the rail, and dropped into the churning sea.

Garrick’s laughter turned full blown—it rang out over the white-tipped waves. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he yelled at Tully, who quickly disappeared from view. Garrick’s sword glistened above him. “No one can beat me! No one! I am invincible!”

The clouds echoed his bellow and a great clash of thunder rang out.

Only a few saw what happened next, and their words became infamous in the annals of pirate history. Time and again the story was told of a luminescent bolt of lightning that streaked down from the heavens, captured the Wolf’s upraised blade, then traveled down his arm and into his body—knocking him clean off the deck.

Apparently, the Wolf was
not
invincible.

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©2000 by Pamela Britton.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 978-0-062-03467-0

ISBN 0-06-101431-1

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Cover illustration © John Ennis

First HarperPaperbacks printing: February 2000

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