Pirate Wolf Trilogy (13 page)

“I have no
desire to bed a she-cat.”

“When did your
tastes become so refined? Unless you have suffered some holy
revelation, you are normally content to bed everything that walks
and breathes.”

Dante glared at
Pitt, then the door. “Haven’t you a canvas sling waiting for you
somewhere?”

Pitt grinned,
nonplussed. He acknowledged his dismissal with a tug on a tawny
forelock, then set the stiletto on the desk in plain view. “I
presume you would prefer to slit your own throat rather than tempt
someone else to do it?”

Dante snarled
and looked for something handy to throw, but Pitt was already gone,
his laughter muffled by the closing door.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Dante de
Tourville slept, unmoving, for almost seventy-two hours. He slept
through a heavy squall, replete with thunder and lightning. He
slept through the crash of several dozen tin plates that flew out
of Cook’s arms when he was startled by the sight of Clarence the
cat leaping out at him from a dark corner of the passageway just
outside the door of the cabin.

What
finally brought Dante awake, and grudgingly so, was the soft sound
of a footstep moving stealthily across the cabin floor. That and
the aromatic vapors rising off a platter laden with hot broth, a
large slab of boiled fish, and the ship’s staple, beans and rice.
The finely
chiseled
nostrils flared and the long black lashes shivered open. He
suffered a few moments of disorientation before he remembered where
he was, that he was not just imagining a real berth beneath him and
a cabin not smashed to utter chaos around him.

He judged it to
be sometime in the late afternoon, for the room was flooded with
harsh beams of sunlight. The gallery windows were mullioned, each
palm-sized diamond framed in lead and flaring with points of
brilliant light that seared the back of Dante’s eyeballs like
burning sulphur. He closed them almost immediately, not all the
way, allowing himself a narrow slit through which to see who or
what had disturbed him.

It was a who
and he had to blink again, not believing what his eyes were seeing.
It was the girl, standing at the chart table, frowning over some
calculations while she casually munched on portions of the meal
intended for the occupant of the cabin. In her other hand she held
a square of rough toweling that she was using to dry her newly
washed hair.

Dante did not
move or do anything to betray the fact he was awake. Instead, he
took the opportunity to study Beau Spence while her guard was down.
Her hair was longer than the braid implied. Full and thick with
natural waves, it spread in a dark auburn mass halfway down her
back. With the light pouring through the windows behind her, the
driest curls glistened with threads of gold and red, forming a soft
halo around her head. Her face was dominated by the large,
expressive eyes and a mouth that never should have known a coarse
phrase or a sullen scowl. The light was also strong enough to
betray the slender body beneath the oversized shirt and breeches.
Some vague memory of feeling one of those pert breasts pillowed
against his mouth brought a crooked smile to his lips and a faint
surge of hot blood through his veins.

She glanced up
from the chart table and Dante closed his eyes. He was at a
distinct disadvantage with the light blinding him. He also had a
wad of blankets tangled around his ankles—the only part of him not
naked and open to full disclosure.

“
So,
Captain Dante, your man did not take me at my word,” she murmured,
advancing slowly toward the bed. “You loll about for three days
in
my
cabin, in
my
bed, and no one thought to delouse
you.”

She wiped the
crumbs and grease off her hand and tossed the toweling aside.
Passing by the desk, she picked up the stiletto she had given to
Pitt, along with the oblong whetstone, and began slowly honing the
edge of the blade to razor sharpness.

Dante saw the
blot of her shadow crowding over him and it took a commendable
effort on his part not to open his eyes or visibly brace himself
for what might come next. He recalled Pitt’s words, that he might
prefer to slit his own throat than tempt someone else to do it.
Beau Spence would be the last one he would trust his jugular to,
but he forced his breathing to remain slow and shallow, forced his
hands to remain flat on his belly and not clenched by his
sides.

At the same
time the soft drift of freshly washed hair piqued his senses.
Because he dared not open his eyes, he was left staring inwardly at
the unwanted picture that had impressed itself on his brain the
first day—the one of her lying naked across the top of his desk,
her hair spread in glossy disarray beneath them, her body arching
to receive him, her amber eyes full of flame and fire, heavy lidded
with passion.

The sound
of the knife scraping over the whetstone rescued him from the
dangerous abyss of his imagination and he risked opening one eye a
sliver. She was just standing there, her hand moving by rote to
sharpen the already wickedly keen edge of the blade while her gaze
roved freely over the immodest sprawl of his body. Dante was not
particularly vain about the breadth of his shoulders or the
well-thewed musculature of his arms and legs; the sea was a
demanding mistress, tolerating neither fools nor weaklings lightly.
His lack of vanity did not necessarily include other parts of his
anatomy, which he knew to be as formidable in size and substance as
the rest of him, and it amused him to think of the little pirate
wench fainting into a heap by the bed.

The grinding
stopped and Dante saw Beau drag her eyes up to her own arm, where
she tested the keenness of the blade’s edge on a patch of her own
fine hairs. Far from fainting, she set the whetstone aside and
advanced toward the bed again, her brow creased in a frown of
concentration.

She leaned
forward and Dante tensed his muscles as he felt the edge of the
knife press beneath the crest of his cheekbone. A slow, steady
descent scraped a clean path through the heavy black bearding, a
second widened the path to his ear.

She stopped to
clean the blade just as one silvery-blue eye slitted open. “I trust
you are not just throwing that on the floor. I have been given
quite specific orders not to make a mess in here.”

Beau nearly
dropped the knife as she jerked back. “Christ Jesus! How long have
you been awake?”

“Long enough,”
he answered vaguely, and lifted a hand to wipe a smear of grease
off her chin. “Did you enjoy my meal?”

She drew
further back, out of reach of his long arm. “It is a crime to let
good food go to waste. You have already slept your way through
enough meals to fatten ten men.”

Dante pushed
himself up onto his elbows. “Did I hear you say I have been asleep
for three days?”

“Two full days
and an hour or so shy of the third,” she obliged, glancing out the
windows. “The sun is almost touching the horizon now.”

“
Three
days,” he muttered, massaging his temple with a thumb and
forefinger.
“
Merde
!
My head feels
as if it has a thousand drummers inside.”

“No small
surprise, considering what you drank as your last meal.”

He glared up at
her. “How are the rest of my men?”

“They are
well-fed and well-rested.”

“And Lucifer?
He has not killed anyone yet?”

“Is he likely
to do so?”

“His moods can
be … somewhat unpredictable.”

“Between being
with Mister Pitt during the day and sleeping across your door at
night, he seems to be well-enough behaved. He does not talk much,
does he?”

“He does not
talk at all since the Spaniards cut out his tongue.” He ran his
fingers through his hair, then down onto the cleanly shaved stripe
on his jaw. “Did it not occur to you to ask if I wanted a bare
chin?”

“If you didn’t,
you should have scrubbed out the vermin before you collapsed in my
bed.”

He grinned
carelessly. “Since you started the job, would you care to finish
it?”

She glanced
sidelong at the faint stirring in his groin. “No, thank you. You
appear to be enjoying the attention too much.”

Still grinning,
he reached down and drew the blankets up over his hips. “Forgive me
if I have insulted your sensibilities.”

Bright tiger
eyes flickered back to his face and he had to admit she was a
lovely creature with her hair curling damply around her face and
her cheeks dusted a soft pink.

“Do not flatter
yourself into thinking you have anything I have not seen a hundred
times before.”

“Flattery was
the last thing on my mind,” he assured her.

“Oh? Dare I
guess what was the first?”

“It would
probably disappoint you to know it was food. And a stoup of water
to remove the dry rot from my throat.”

“Cook sent
ale.”

“I would prefer
water … if you wouldn’t mind.”

She released
another huff of exasperation and went out into the corridor,
returning a few moments later with a wooden ladle brimming with
water.

Dante was
sitting on the edge of the bed, his long legs hanging over the
side, the blanket draped across his loins. He accepted the ladle
graciously and drained it in a few deep swallows, savoring the
coolness and the taste despite the fact it bore the woody taint of
oak from the barrel.

Beau watched
him drink, watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Her
gaze drifted down to the broad, well-muscled shoulders and arms,
then across the luxuriant mat of hair that covered his chest. She
skipped deliberately over the area covered by the blanket, although
what lay concealed beneath was warmly impressed on her mind.

“Cook has
changed the bandages on your leg twice. The wound seems to be
healing well.”

Dante glanced
at his calf and gave his foot and ankle a turn. “Aye, it feels
markedly better. I thank you.”

Casually
awarded, his gratitude deepened the stain in her cheeks.

She cleared her
throat. “The captain will want to know you are awake; I should go
and find him.”

“Wait,” Dante
said sharply, putting aside the ladle. She reacted warily to the
tone of command in his voice, and remembering Pitt’s suggestion, he
softened his expression and attempted a look of disarming
humility.

“I know we
started out on the wrong footing,” he said, “but you must
understand I was at the point of desperation and not in possession
of my full senses.”

Beau narrowed
her eyes, thinking he looked like Clarence the cat after he had
been caught stealing fish off the cook’s plate.

“
My only
thought at the time was for the safety of my men and for salvaging
what we could from the
Virago”

“My father
boarded your ship in good faith. His only thought at the time was
to rescue you and your men before your ship sank. Even now he has
ordered our stores of food and water be given freely to your crew,
though we suffer shortages ourselves.”

Dante gritted
his teeth but kept smiling. “I have already apologized to your
father and attempted to explain—”

She cut
him off. “Would an apology and explanation from Victor Bloodstone
serve to cool
your
anger?”

“We are hardly
guilty of the same crimes.”

“
No? We
found your ship foundering and on the verge of sinking and my
father’s only crime was showing concern for any possible survivors.
Yet you threatened him with killing me, you took command of his
ship and crew and forced both to accept the unwanted burden of your
heavy guns. You have turned the
Egret
from an honest trading vessel into a warship and dispatched
her on a hunt for another warship with no thought to the
consequences.”

“The
consequences are that you will be better able to defend yourselves
in hostile situations.”

“
Our
situation will become hostile only if we succeed in finding
the
Talon.
Or if we
are found by another vessel and your presence here on board is
discovered.”

Muscles folded
over powerful muscles as he crossed his arms. “Would it ease your
mind if I promise to throw myself overboard should the latter
occur?”

“
There is
no need for such promises, Captain. I shall do it myself if I think
the safety of the
Egret
, her
captain, or crew is compromised.”

“All by
yourself?” he asked with an easy smile.

“I am stronger
than I look, sir. Better men than you have discovered it to be so,
to their disappointment and loss.”

“And what about
your disappointment?”

“Mine?”

“Yours … that
they were not strong enough to match you.”

Without
warning, Dante rose from the bed. The blanket fell to the floor,
but he paid it no heed as he stalked forward the two long strides
it took to bring him directly in front of her. Not knowing what to
expect, she tried to stumble back, but her retreat was blocked by
the chart table. She raised the stiletto instinctively. Dante was
anticipating the move and managed to grasp her wrist, twisting it
sharply enough to startle the knife out of her fingers.

He raked his
hands into the damp thickness of her hair and forcibly tilted her
head up, and, after supplementing his challenge with a mocking
grin, lowered his mouth, brutally crushing her lips beneath
his.

Beau was
outraged. Her body burned with anger, her senses exploded with a
corresponding fury. Her hands were trapped against the marble-hard
surface of his chest and she tried to push herself free, but it was
like trying to push against a stone wall. She opened her mouth to
scream a curse, but he only took advantage and filled it with his
tongue, thrusting with hard, deep strokes that were as shocking as
they were enraging. His grip was firm, his hands twined tightly
through her hair. His mouth was brutal and possessive, chasing
after each cry, each attempt to twist away from the forced
intimacy.