Romancing the Rogue (41 page)

About the Author

Bestselling author Ruth J. Hartman spends her days herding cats and her nights spinning sweet romantic tales that make you smile, giggle, or laugh out loud. She, her husband, and their three cats love to spend time curled up in their recliners watching old Cary Grant movies. Well, the cats, Maxwell, Roxy and Remmie, sit in the people's recliners. Not that the cats couldn't get their own furniture. They just choose to shed on someone else's. You know how selfish those little furry creatures can be.

Ruth, a left-handed, cat-herding, Jeep driving, farmhouse-dwelling romance writer uses her goofy sense of humor as she writes tales of lovable, klutzy women and the men who adore them. Ruth's husband and best friend, Garry, reads her manuscripts, rolls his eyes at her weird story ideas, and loves her in spite of her penchant for insisting all of her books have at least one cat in them. Or twelve. But hey, who's counting?

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by Katherine Bone

Dedication

To Johnnie, my rogue, rebel, and rake, my husband and beloved friend.

English Coast, 1804

Gently bred women
did not disobey their fathers.

Constance understood what her mission entailed. Sail to Spain and plead for her aunt’s support, contrary to her father’s wishes. He detested Aunt Lydia and had refused any interaction between them. As a result, she had no idea if the woman was even still alive. That she ventured out onto the sea, risking life and limb to find her aunt, was due to her uncle’s insistence. Aunt Lydia was their only hope. Halfway to Spain, Constance lay in her cabin with one goal in mind, winning her aunt’s favor so the Danbury name would not come to ruin.

The reality of how far her family had fallen in so short a time hit Constance full force when a shrill whistle barreled over the merchantman Octavia’s deck. All at once, the ship recoiled and one thunderous volley after another exploded, vibrating the vessel from bow to stern. She stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, willing it to hold firm, fearing its collapse. Fighting back ghastly images of her mother’s death at sea proved almost too difficult a task. She knew well enough what awaited if the ship sank — a watery grave. She had borne that experience ten years earlier, survived, and found herself a motherless child as a result.

The handle on the cabin door jostled, heightening her anxiety. Hampered by the bolt she’d put in place before retiring for the night, her would-be intruder jerked the knob and thumped on the sturdy wood with vengeance.

“Lady Constance!”

Lieutenant Guffald’s voice sent her into action. Constance darted to the door. The gallant officer calling her name had nearly lost favor with his captain for promising her uncle to give her safe passage to San Sebastian. Constance suppressed a shiver. Matters were most grave, if Guffald attempted to enter her cabin without waiting for her admittance. He was a gentleman, one unlike the man she was trying to escape.

Constance glanced at her terrified governess, Mrs. Mortimer, and opened the door. The lieutenant brushed past her, pushing his way into the cabin. He turned and hurriedly grabbed her by the shoulders, casting aside propriety.

“Pirates have drawn alongside us and have every intention of boarding.”

“Pirates?” The barely audible word rushed out of her mouth, and the irony of the situation hit her with inescapable force.

“I’ve come to warn you,” the lieutenant continued. “Stay inside your cabin. Bolt the door. Admit no one until I return.”

Pirates.
Heaven help her, not again!

The lieutenant spoke, his voice barely audible to her ears. “Mrs. Mortimer, I entrust Lady Constance into your care. I beg you — make sure no one enters this room but me.”

“I shall do as you say, sir.”

Another explosion pounded the ship. The Octavia listed. Constance screamed. Lieutenant Guffald wrapped his arms about her to keep her from slipping to the floor.

When the vessel stabilized, Guffald said, “I must go.” His grip on her upper arm tightened.

She nodded. “Thank you for coming to warn us.”

His lip curled to one side and an odd light illuminated his eyes. Though Constance yearned to beg him to stay, she preferred the lieutenant slay the enemy before the pirates arrived at her door.

“Do not leave this room,” he reminded them, his eyes an unblinking beacon of hope. He squeezed her shoulders with lean stable fingers, bent to kiss her hand, and then headed for the door. Before exiting, he turned and glanced over his shoulder. “Double bolt the lock. Do not be tempted to escape. I will return posthaste.”

The cabin door closed with a thud, and the thick scraping of the bolt gripped Constance’s already fraught nerves. Mrs. Mortimer assisted her in thrusting the heavier wooden bar into place. Secure, but unsure for how long, Constance held Morty close. How long would the sounds of murder and mayhem fill her mind with horror?

“Quickly, your clothes,” Mrs. Mortimer shrieked as cannon shots whirred by the window. The cabin shook. Tortuous sounds erupted all around them. Cascading veils of dust floated down on their heads, filling their nostrils with indelicate odors. Would the ceiling hold?

Snatching at Mrs. Mortimer’s arms, Constance fought back the terror raging through her body. They were in grave danger. It wouldn’t be long before pirates breached their cabin. What then? What if pirates killed them, or killed Morty, sparing Constance for a more horrifying ordeal? Constance eyed the door. She wasn’t going to die, postured like a prophetic sentinel awaiting her doom. She was going to fight.

“Your clothes, Constance,” Mrs. Mortimer reminded her, stirred into action when Constance stepped away.

“No time,” she said, searching the room for a weapon. “What do you think will become of him?”

“Who, child?

“My father,” she said, panic setting in.

“You heard the lieutenant. He will not allow any harm to come to us. You will still be able to help your father.”

No matter how Morty tried to reassure her, the four walls of the cabin tapered in, making it harder and harder to breathe.

“This is my fault,” Constance shouted over her shoulder. “I’m being punished for refusing to wed the man my father chose.”

“You are not being punished,” Mrs. Mortimer scolded. “Here. Put this on.”

Constance began to step into a round gown Morty had hastily chosen, just as an eerie silence fell. An explosion rocked the ship. She was thrown backward as shouts of barbarity and elation rose in shrill octaves. Where was Captain Collins? Lieutenant Guffald? Were they still alive?

“Pirates won’t stop until they’ve plundered this
entire
ship and everything in it,” Constance gasped, choking back a frightened cry. “They’ll find us. And when they do, unspeakable things will happen.”

“No,” Mrs. Mortimer pleaded as Constance lunged for the door. “Guffald told us to stay in this room, and here we shall remain.”

Heavy footfalls sounded. Constance’s hand dropped away from the bolt. Mrs. Mortimer jumped back with fright as loud obscenities rose from the corridor. Merciless pounding beat on one door to the next, and the next, a staccato that intensified. Men screamed. Constance put a fist to her mouth to stifle a shriek. Just when she thought she could take no more, a hysterical scream pierced the night. Mrs. Mortimer!

Constance covered the woman’s mouth and waited, half-crazed, for their inevitable discovery. Then, as though drawn like ravenous bees, their attackers massed outside the cabin door. Constance focused on the bolt, wordlessly urging it to hold fast. Voices converged, insistent, merciless, before an ominous object pelted the door, cutting the wooden exterior with a loud whack.

“They’re hacking down the door,” Constance whispered. “We’ve got no time to lose.”

Mrs. Mortimer snatched at Constance’s shift as she pulled away. Her nightshift tore in the woman’s grasp, but Constance was past caring. She began rummaging quickly through their trunks for a weapon but came up empty-handed. Nervously, she searched the room for something, anything she could use. A bedwarmer poked out of a pile of debris their belongings had formed near one of the cabin walls. It would have to suffice. She picked up the copper contraption and held it close to her chest then returned to Mrs. Mortimer’s side, ushering her companion to the far corner of the room. She flinched with every agonizing whack on the wooden portal.

“
The Lord will save us, Constance. Have no fear
.
”
Her mother’s fateful, haunting words were little consolation.

“We’ve tempted the devil,” Mrs. Mortimer said, sobbing.

Wood groaned, forewarning the cabin door’s collapse. Constance squeezed her eyes tightly shut as Mrs. Mortimer recited the Lord’s Prayer.

Wood splintered around the door hinges. Constance’s heart thumped wildly against her ribs.
If
Captain Collins was dead, there would be no leniency, no moral compass. She and Mrs. Mortimer would find themselves in gruesome circumstances indeed. Her heartbeat matched the hammering rhythm of her enemy’s labors, until the thrashing suddenly stopped.

Constance held her breath and prayed. The voice she heard in response to her prayers bellowed loudly in the bowels of the ship — deep, menacing, more ferocious and demanding than any other voice she’d ever heard before. Orders dispatched. Boots scraped against the floor, eager to fulfill the ogre’s directive. A foreboding chill saturated her shift. Prepared for the worst, Constance stood to the side of the door, bedwarmer in hand.

Movement. Sound. The door splintered above the reinforced bolt. Mrs. Mortimer shrieked as someone kicked debris out of the way, crouched low, and prepared for resistance. Constance lifted the bedwarmer and slammed it over the man’s skull. He crashed to the floor in an unconscious heap.

She lifted the copper weapon to strike again. But just as she swung to hit the second man, a meaty fist swatted it away. A patch covered this pirate’s eye, and his scowl revealed a rebellious, angry countenance as his vicious stare raked her head to toe.

Behind him, pirates moved in to pillage the room, tossing aside debris, brandishing weapons, laughing riotously, desiring a go at the “appetizing wenches.” But not this pirate. With authority, he extended his hand into the air, bringing the other large men with heaving chests and torn clothing spattered with blood to a halt. Captain Collins and his crew must have proven their worth, given their bedraggled appearance. That thought alone brought her a small measure of hope that the Octavia’s crew might still be alive.

But what if they were all dead? She glanced man to man, searching for someone, anyone who might come to her aid. What she saw made her knees shake. One pirate grabbed his crotch lewdly and nodded. Two men stared at her bosom, one licked his lips. Constance followed the direction of their gazes and her breath solidified in her throat. Her shift, right shoulder torn, sagged down across one breast, revealing too much flesh. She gasped and pulled the fabric closed.

“The way this cabin had been fortified, I expected to find the Queen.”

The cabin exploded with raucous laughter as the men shuffled and pressed so close to her the nauseating smell of sweat and blood assaulted her senses.

“You handle that
weapon
expertly, lass. What else can you do?” the one-eyed pirate asked.

Constance refused to cower. She tossed her head back, firmly intent on surviving whatever the pirates forced on her. She didn’t want to die.

Finding her voice, Mrs. Mortimer screeched, “Leave us be!”

“Never fear,” the demon said. “We’ve never misused a wench who didn’t welcome the attention.” A buoyant cheer rose from the men.

Mrs. Mortimer released a heart wrenching sob.

“You may be common,” the blackguard stated, looking Constance up and down, “but
we
aren’t particular, are we, men?”

She didn’t miss his emphasis on “we.” She and Mrs. Mortimer were to be passed from one man to another like common doxies. Constance lifted her chin another notch.
Common, indeed!

“Your desire to fight is natural,” he assured. “But the temptation will pass.”

The leader paused. A disturbing glint flickered in his eye. Had he decided to kill her? He tilted his head sideways and stepped forward.

She backed away. “Don’t come any closer.”

Unfazed, he took another step. “I stand corrected,” he said, placing surprisingly warm fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head left, then right, as if searching her features for something. “You, my little blossom, are anything
but
common.” A frown creased his brow. He pulled away, breaking contact, leaving a strange burning sensation where his fingers had been.

Shock infiltrated her senses. What had just happened? Had he recognized her? The very idea was absurd. He was a pirate! They didn’t frequent the same social circles. And yet something
had
registered between them. She’d felt it in his gaze, his touch.

He turned away to address the other brigands in the room. “Search the room. Report whatever you find to me.”

Men rifled through her belongings, scattering petticoats and stockings about the room as if they were rags.

Constance focused on planning her escape. If Captain Collins and Lieutenant Guffald were still alive, they wouldn’t want her to succumb to theatrics. They would need her to be level-headed.

Fabric ripped. Constance rushed at the thieves who’d torn the hem of her green lined riding habit and were only seconds away from discovering her hidden money pouch. The garment held the last valuable farthing she’d saved to procure transportation to Aunt Lydia’s home. Without those funds, she and Mrs. Mortimer would be destitute.

“Stay back,” the one-eyed brigand warned, intercepting her, his voice dagger sharp.

Constance was forced to watch her future fade before her eyes as the rogues ripped into the wool cloth. Grinning, one rotten-mouthed man produced the pouch and threw it into the one-eyed pirate’s hand. The cur tossed the purse, weighed it, nodded, and ordered his lackey to take the money topside.

With nothing left to distract them, her captors turned away from her to plunder another one of her trunks. Constance stood by helplessly as one by one, men filtered in and out of the room.