Romancing the Rogue (44 page)

Celeste’s silhouette flashed before him, but her image was dissected by Constance’s terrified scream. The time had come. Percy pulled out his blunderbuss and aimed the pistol at Guffald’s would-be assassin. He pulled the trigger. Smoke filled the air as the powerful slug hit the man and sent him reeling backward. The torch disappeared when the tar vanished over the Octavia’s railing.

“Make ready!” Percy yelled to his men.

One of Frink’s men attacked Percy from behind. He jabbed the man in the ribs, side-stepped a flash of silver, turned, and bashed him over the head with the butt of his pistol. Percy then tossed the gun and bent to retrieve a sword sticking out of a bloodied corpse.

“Ollie, take care of Guffald,” he said wiping the bloody blade on his breeches. “Nelson will want him alive.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Jacko,” he said, “give the signal.”

Jacko’s shrill whistle galvanized the men. One by one, they raced into action; drawing dirks, cutlasses, marlinspikes, and axes against Frink’s crew. Mutiny swept man to man. What was left of Collins’ crew jumped into the fray.

Percy rushed up to Collins.

“Save her,” Collins panted. “Don’t let any harm come to Lady Constance!”

Percy nodded. He grabbed Jacko’s arm. “Take care of him.” Jacko laid his hand on Collins’ shoulder, as Percy hastened toward the cargo hatch. A loud crack splintered the air. Dodging debris and the carnage, he stepped out of the way just in time to avoid a collapsing mast. Up ahead, Frink loitered just beyond his reach.

“Hold,” Percy shouted, stepping in to confront his nemesis.

Frink’s head snapped up. His sudden mistake cost him as Constance took advantage of the moment and shoved her knee into Frink’s half-exposed crotch. Bowing with pain, the captain cursed. Constance scrambled to get away. Percy rushed forward to grab Constance’s arm and pull her to his side, but Frink miraculously regained his balance and grabbed Constance’s foot to drag her back.

“Not so fast,” he bellowed. Squaring his eyes at Percy, he spat, “I’ll be blown, you turncoat! I should’ve known you’d turn your back on me!”

“Hand over the girl!”

Percy held his cutlass high, aiming the broad tip at Frink’s heart, allowing his gaze but a second or two to linger on Constance to ensure that she was unharmed. Shaken but uninjured, she appeared to be going into shock. He watched in horror as she stumbled closer to the edge of the hatch to escape the silver blade upheld in Frink’s fist.

“Take her from me, if you can,” Frink challenged.

Constance whimpered. Left with no other choice, Percy was going to have to go through Frink to reach her. With fencing prowess unmatched, he had no doubt as to his odds. But a cutlass was a hacking blade. Should he wield the final blow, all connection to Frink and his benefactor would be destroyed, ending his quest to bring Celeste’s killer to justice.

Rumbling as if Poseidon tore at the Octavia’s hull, the merchantman’s wooden shell began to crack. Glass shattered. The deck heaved. Time was running out.

Bloody hell. “Look out!” Percy cried as the deck collapsed, plunging Constance through the hatch.

Frink’s eyes took on demonic light and he grinned wickedly. “Looks like you’re too late to save the wench. But if you dare to try, you’ll have to go through me first.”

With vicious tenacity, the captain engaged Percy in a duel of clashing steel. Their two blades arched, swooped down, jabbed and parried as they pirouetted, lunged, and retreated.

Percy’s blade sparked as it sliced Frink’s. “You’ve preyed upon the innocent for the last time.”

“Give it your best, boy!”

Percy sidestepped Frink’s lunging thrusts, challenging him jab for jab. Step by step, their sword play sapped his strength as they parried closer to the hatch and the collapsing deck along the bow. Eight long months of anger and humiliation fueled the duel. As the combat continued — lunge, parry, lunge — the ship, gutted for everything it was worth, listed. The Octavia had little time left before it slipped beneath the surface. For Constance’s sake, Percy needed to end this quickly, so he could give her what he’d never been able to give his own sister. Freedom.

Debris cascaded down on them, hampering the fight. Frink baited him with riotous vigor, the strains of his insanity tightening Percy’s corded nerves. An explosion below rocked their feet, sending them reeling sideways. Percy moved in for the kill as the Octavia dipped, growing miserably defiant.

“She’s goin’ down, Sexton!”

Frink propelled his blade forward, nearly burying it in Percy’s side. Warmth seeped down Percy’s hip. Ocean spray moistened his face. He couldn’t back down. He had to put an end to Frink’s tyranny even if it cost him his last breath.

The ship rolled backward, pitching them both forward. Unable to catch his footing, Frink stumbled headfirst into the hold. Percy ran toward the hatch and peered into the darkness, searching for any sign of Constance. Groaning in agony, the Octavia measured her fate by inches. If he was going to get Constance off the ship alive, Percy knew he was going to have to jump in after her.

Without another thought, he leapt into the hold. Landing unsteadily on his feet, he took a moment to get his bearings, but was immediately pummeled from behind. Scrambling to protect himself, he sighted Frink out of the corner of his eye as the man attempted to slam another piece of wood onto his back. The blow struck him across the shoulder. Percy caught the wooden beam jerked it out of Frink’s hands and then slammed the jagged wood into the captain’s side. Frink fell to the bottom of the hull, cursed, and rolled to his feet, producing a knife. Dodging a few well-placed thrusts that caught him along the sleeve, Percy pivoted, jerked the knife free, and locked the captain in a choke-hold.

Fury unlike any he’d ever known seethed within him, and a satisfied smile curved the corners of his mouth as he strangled Frink unconscious. If he couldn’t find the benefactor who’d financed Frink’s endeavors, at least he could gain satisfaction from killing Frink, the pirate captain responsible for the demise of innocents.

Light flickered above, illuminating wreckage floating about his feet. Water frothed about his legs as he searched hull to hull for any signs of Constance Danbury.

“Constance!” he yelled.

His ears alerted to every sound, he let Frink go and watched the man slip underwater. The burden of an empty future was a weightless concern compared to the life of the woman he had yet to find. He called her name again. Not long after, he heard a groaning plea rise above shifting timber, swelling water, and the bedlam above.

“Constance?”

“Help!”

He heard the faint request and sped into action.

Searching the darkness, he spied fabric floating atop the foamy surface. A hand clawed the air. A golden head rose out of the freezing wash. Water cascaded in rivulets from beams threatening to burst at the seams. Shouts to abandon ship rang out above deck as the ship reeled at an awkward angle. The vessel moaned like thousands of murdered souls pleading release.

Percy waded through the quickening wash and lifted Constance into his arms. Her shift clung to her body like a second skin as her head sagged against him. Pale, unresponsive, he slapped her cheek to rouse her. Nothing. Was he too late? Still no response. He grabbed her chin with his broad hand and pulled her mouth toward his, breathing life into her. One puff. Two. Three. She coughed, spitting water out of her mouth, then sucked in life-giving air.

“G-Get away f-from me.”

The ship pitched again, moaning, making him feel like he was trapped in the belly of a whale. Time was running out.

Percy gave her a rough shake. “Do you know how to swim, woman?”

“Swim?” Good heavens!
She couldn’t swim.

“If you don’t, we’re as good as dead.” The blackguard reached for her arm.

She contemplated taking the proffered hand, knowing she had no alternative, fearing what would happen if she didn’t have enough courage to do so.

“Take my hand. We’ve got to reach the top of the hold, or we’ll go under with the ship.”

“I’ll never make it!”

“Trust me.”

Constance sobbed. “I can’t.” This time, she wasn’t talking about trust. Paralyzed with fear, she stared longingly at his broad, capable hand.

Water swirled about her waist, higher and higher, the icy lather inching up to her breasts, churning around her. He couldn’t know the demons he asked her to face, the terror rushing through her veins, the tightness in her chest.

“You must.”

“I can’t!” she exclaimed, her body and mind shutting down. What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she take his hand? Was it the frigid water temperature or fear muddling her thoughts?

“You can and you will.”

He spoke as though surviving shipwrecks had been a daily affair. His icy stare commanded her obedience. Every ounce of her being wanted to comply, to believe this devil meant to help her, but horrors of the past, pirates, her mother descending beneath the foamy spray took an unrelenting hold upon her mind.

Undeterred, he reached out and grabbed her waist. She yelped.

“Do you want my death on your conscience?”

“Nothing would please me more!” She lied. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want her death on his conscience, if he had one. Her frantic gaze searched the dwindling space in the hold, her mind doubting getting off the Octavia was even possible.

“Do you want to live?”

“Y-yes…” she finally stammered. Good God! Yes!

He pulled her toward the hatch opening and then released her momentarily to get a grip on the ledge. Almost immediately, a blunt object scraped her leg, knocking her out of his reach. She cried out and snatched for his hand. He grasped her hair, yanking her back toward him as the sea roiled like a living being beneath them.

“Leave me.” She gulped a mouthful of water and gasped. “I’ll only get you killed!”

“Grab hold of my neck and don’t let go. We’ll climb up to the hatch and make for the Striker.”

“I’m… a-afraid,” she cried, finally getting a foothold, teeth chattering.

“Concentrate. I’ll get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do. I swear it upon my sister’s grave. Trust me,” he implored. His entreaty robbed her of all thought. She nodded, desperate to cling onto a smidgeon of hope that she could survive — again. “That’s it. Hang on! Let me do the work.”

He swam with her to a beam in the hull, dodging wood fragments flooding past. With the strength of what seemed like ten men, he reached up for the edge of the hatch, pulled himself up, and then dangled his body above her with the agility of a man used to averting disaster.

“Keep a firm grip on the rail,” he shouted.

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, the weight of it temporarily submerging her. Constance struggled to keep her grip, but no matter how she tried to hang on, her hands slipped. She sank, swallowing her fill of seawater, and tried unsuccessfully 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 eagerly. The hand she grabbed didn’t belong to her mother, however, but a devil with a worrisome snarl. The brute yanked her up and onto the Octavia’s sloping, fiery deck.

“You’re a lot of trouble.”

“M-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! Y-You can’t mean to—”

“I do.”

She put her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. As a testament to his brawny strength, he pulled her arms from around his neck and ordered, “Grab the girl, Jacko,” and threw her overboard.

Jacko ordered, “Clear the ship!

Icy seawater splashed over her as she landed with a big splash and clawed mindlessly toward the glowing surface until she was quickly fished out of the sea by two sneering crewmen who lifted her as if she weighed not an ounce. Once inside the boat, she glanced furiously over her shoulder toward the Octavia and the damned pirate who’d thrown her in the Celtic Sea knowing full well she was afraid of drowning. But her anger dissolved in an instant, and she held her breath as the blackguard stood on the blazing deck like a mythical god. An extraordinary, lithe spectacle, he dove into the sea, arching high to plunge beneath the frothy surface and effortlessly swim to the side of the gig, where he grabbed hold of a proffered arm and swung himself deftly aboard. He shook water from his hair and took a knee.

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

“Aye,” he said, his voice absolutely emotionless. “Get us clear, Jacko, before she takes us under.”

“Row, men! Steer us free!” Jacko bellowed.

As the distance grew between the cutter and the sinking ship, Constance shivered and that caused her to wonder if drowning wouldn’t have been the better choice. What would her future hold now?

~~~~

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 ill-fated Octavia tip bow to stern, half anticipation, half dread. The sea devoured her whole, taking Frink and all connection to Celeste’s killer down to the bottom of Davy Jones’ 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 irritated gaze settled on the bedraggled Lady Constance. A war of emotions raged within him. 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 on the altar of pestilence. The guilt bit as fiercely as the frigid wind cut into his wet clothes. 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 and he trusted himself not to do anything he’d regret, 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 didn’t sit well on the stomach. The little fool. What was she doing there? He scrutinized her with increasing suspicion. In the moonlight, he could see that her coloring had slightly paled, though her body was primed for attack as her gaze darted frantically left then right, prepared to strike the first man who came near. Scantily clothed, eyes wide, she clutched her arms across her chest. That she suspected his men of foul play was obvious. But with the lives of the poor souls aboard the Octavia depending on Nelson’s Tea to win the day, her crazed stare forced home the truth. His life would be forever changed by what he’d just done, and he and his men would be the barb of her distrust.

Waves lapped against the cutter. Icy breath hovered before his men as they manned the oars. Lady Constance didn’t know how lucky she was to be alive. Lucky he’d been there to save her. Hell, he and his men were lucky to be alive.

As frightened as Constance had been and was, she’d proven to be a fighter just like her uncle. His gaze turned keenly observant. Her nightshift and wrap clung to her in tatters. Her long blonde hair lay platted against her skull, dull and lifeless, making her eyes appear larger than they really were. Without a cloak or anything else to protect her from the cold, the night air had to be chilling her to the bone. Suddenly conscious of her discomforts, Percy shifted positions, forcing one of the men closest to her to relocate to the other end of the boat. He moved to sit beside her, amid her protestations, and wrapped his arms about her. When she finally settled against him, he tilted her face up to his and noted the blue tinge developing on her lips. Odder still, her large green eyes had taken on a blank stare. Had she gone daft? Was she going into shock? 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 on his lap, cradling her tiny form, absorbing her quivering spasms, resting her head against the crook of his neck so she could nuzzle closer and absorb his warmth.

His men grinned wickedly. With hearty laughter they began to bet on how quickly the woman would fall for his charms.

“Row, men!” he ordered sternly. “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 bedwarmer held aloft over her head, he’d been inexplicably drawn to her. His gut tightened as he recalled Frink’s attempted rape. Was he just as vile in her eyes? No better than Frink? Bloody hell. Impaled with guilt, he wanted more than ever to show her what a real man could do to a willing woman.

“You’re a pirate. Not a real man.”

If she only knew.

It had been her strength of will, her refusal to give her real name or cower before him that 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 from the
ton
. But on the Striker, men were free to lead whatever life they 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. Percy studied her face, knowing he would give anything to prove to her ladyship the kind of man he really was.

He frowned. Why had Constance Danbury been on board the Octavia in the first place? Was she Simon’s emissary? Whistler — Frink’s accomplice? If so, why did Frink attack her? What had been her real motive for sailing to Spain? The situation between England and Spain was tenuous at best. And
if
he was forced to sail back to England in close proximity to a curvaceous temptation that warranted both his distrust and honor-bound protection, what kind of assurances could he make that 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 held her in his lap, massaging her stiff muscles, encouraging blood flow back into her torso. Eager for his warmth, she leaned into his touch and, with primitive longing, wrapped her stiff, cold arms around his waist.

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

“Shush. You’re safe now,” he promised.

“L-liar,” she stammered as a chill swept through her. “You’re a pirate.”

Frink’s attempted rape, the violence men were capable of, flashed before his eyes. It galled him to be linked to a man like Frink. He understood her view of him however. She’d not seen anything to convince her otherwise — yet.

He answered her honestly. “Aye. I’m a liar and a pirate.” He reached for the desk and picked up a bottle of French brandy — probably smuggled in from Portugal — on the side table. “Now drink this. 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. Then she coughed uncontrollably.

“Burns?” At her nod, he added, “Drink up. The burning serves to warm you from the inside out.”

“For what purpose?”

“Whatever purpose I choose,” he said.

Her green eyes narrowed and her eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll die before I succumb to the likes of you.”

“So you’ve promised.”

She drank another long swig of brandy and stared up at him, her eyes piercing into his soul. “
You
saved me,” she said, her voice whisper soft. “A
pirate
saved me.” Then, before he could reply, she heaved a dreamy sigh and collapsed into oblivion.

All for the better, he supposed.

Lifting the cask to his lips, Percy turned it over and shook the empty bottle. Damn his ill-fated luck. He looked down at 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 in his arms. He laid her on Frink’s bunk —
his
bunk. Her body warmed beneath his fingers. Her weary face lay obscured in shadow. In the stillness of the cabin, he could hear her breathe and took great pleasure in the fact that her lungs sounded clear.

He contemplated the treasure he’d found. Simon had mentioned that The Duke of Throckmorton kept his daughter on a short leash. For that reason, he’d seen her on only one other occasion — a ball three years earlier where Nelson’s Tea had met for a secret rendezvous with the admiral. Would she recognize him?

She’d changed. His gaze trailed Constance’s pale, shapely shoulders to the dip of her waist and lower still past shapely calves to her dainty bare feet and back again. Innocent, courageous, she was a beautiful young woman, hardly capable of surviving Frink’s wrath, but she had. A feast for a lonely man’s eyes, she was the vision of 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.

A silver locket lay against her perfectly round breasts, and he stared at the pink areolas visible from beneath the transparent veil of her torn, wet shift, eager for a taste of her hardened nipples. His hands longed to test the uncharted territory of her virginal 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 poured himself two fingers of liquor and downed the amber fluid in one gulp, enjoying the warmth burning a fiery track to his stomach. Once sated, he sat in the captain’s chair, pleasured by the sight of the near naked form on display before him. Lady Constance was a beautiful vision. And though he couldn’t have her, he could stare to his heart’s content. After all, what more did he have to do other than join his men, a most unreasonable idea, given his new rank and the guest he dared not abandon in his quarters.

The Striker sailed low in the water. Packed with the Octavia’s supplies, forced to carry what was left of the Octavia’s and Frink’s crews, the added weight of his own men and two women would slow down the ship. The journey home, baring bad weather, mutinies to dissolve, would require his detailed attention. He had no time to wean this beautiful pup.

God! This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. The burden of two captive women, the care of wounded men. He should go above deck. Take charge.
No,
he thought pensively. He should stay where he was. He owed it to Simon to protect his niece. As a gentleman, he owed it to himself to ensure she made it home to London unscathed. But a small inner voice suggested he’d been denied any hint of happiness for far too long. Lying helplessly before him, Lady Constance was an irresistible temptation. Content to stare, he sat back and devoured her firm backside at his leisure. How long he did so, he couldn’t be sure, but she moaned, cried out, “Mama,” and then struggled against the bed linen, jarring him out of his stupor. Like a siren, she drew him back to the bunk, the one place he knew he shouldn’t, couldn’t be.

“Mama!” she said again, reaching out to grab him by the thigh.

Percy groaned as her touch sent a heated current to his groin. “It’s going to be all right. You’re safe.”

Could he guarantee her safety? He wasn’t sure as she mumbled something unintelligible and he fought to understand what was happening to her. Bloody hell. No wonder the girl was going into fits. He’d left her uncovered, her barely clad body open to his appraisal, vulnerable to the cold. He gritted his teeth, and with sensitivity he hadn’t possessed in ages, he lifted her nightshift up and over her shoulders and then discarded it on the floor at his feet. The action was sheer torture to his straining cock. The brandy had done its worst. Tempted beyond reason, he reached out a finger and traced the graceful line of her shoulder. His finger slid down her arm, waist, hip, thigh, and calf, until he reached 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. How would she taste?

Percy’s blood thrummed through his veins. His heart beat thudded in his ears, 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. Was he?

No. He was still a duke’s son, no matter how far he wandered from home, no matter what he’d done. Nothing could change where he’d come from, who he really was. Suddenly, more than ever, he wanted to reclaim his life in London, prove himself worthy of a good woman, like the one tossing and turning 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.

Percy closed his weary eyes and dreamed of better days, of privilege, society, uncomplicated frivolity. Picnics, carriage rides in Hyde Park along the Serpentine, jaunts along Rotten Row, operas in Convent Garden, and frequent forays to view rare artifacts discovered at the British Museum.

In his youth, he’d indulged in wicked pretentiousness. Masked the real man he’d always dreamed of becoming, the real man, he, disguised as Thomas Sexton, had become, free of constraint. He was born Percival Avery, the Marquess of Stanton, son of Rathbone Avery, Sixth Duke of Blendingham. Both Thomas Sexton, the contrived character he’d used to his benefit as a member of Nelson’s Tea, and Percival Avery, his birthright, came from different societal molds. Percy had been born into a privileged life filled with gaiety, leisure, and fashion. Thomas had been born out of revenge, into murder and mayhem. Percy wouldn’t harm a hair on the fairer sex’s head. He wouldn’t be seen cavorting with women of low virtue. Thomas, on the other hand, enjoyed plucking sensual women from his travels, taking what sexual pleasure he found when he wanted it or it was presented to him. Or at least that was the image he’d encouraged.

Torn between two worlds, Percy wondered if it was a crime to want the defenseless woman before him. A woman who crossed the boundaries he’d erected around his heart. A woman sporting the power to bind the two men he’d become into one. If he allowed it.

Tired of battling images past and present, Percy drew in a ragged breath.

Constance called out, “Mama,” again, smacking his hands as if fighting off demons from another time, another place. What could have possibly happened to torment her so? Damned if he could remember Simon mentioning Constance other than in passing. And he certainly couldn’t help her if he didn’t know how.

“You’re safe, little rose,” he whispered near her ear.

She moaned. Had she heard him in her embattled stupor? He couldn’t be sure, but a part of him hoped he’d been able to reach her, to somehow ease her inner turmoil. The thought pleased him.

He rose and ran his hands through his hair, his gaze narrowing in on the silver locket dangling from her neck. Fascinated, he lifted the trinket and opened it. Drops of water trickled out of the trinket onto her skin, the rivulets streaming across her flesh. She shivered. He examined her face and then focused on the image in the locket of a woman with similar features. Who was the woman? Her mother? Aunt? Sister, perhaps? Perplexed, he closed the silver casing then eased Constance’s body under the coverlet and rose from the bunk.

“Sleep now,” he said, turning to pace the cabin.

As captain, his men assumed Lady Constance was his. An invigorating thought. Blonde, courageous, the vixen had defied incalculable odds forced on her. Her wit, courage, and size were perfectly suited to him. Frink was dead. All hope of finding Celeste’s killer gone. Yet neither of them was out of danger. For this reason, and this reason alone, he couldn’t reveal his true identity. His charade had to continue until they reached port. But he also had to do everything in his power to make sure his men believed Constance belonged to him in every way. It was the only strategic maneuver that would keep her safe from his men — Frink’s men — from himself
.

Zounds, he wasn’t so consumed with revenge that he didn’t know he was more dangerous to Constance than anyone else. Constance’s slumbering form drew him like a moth to a flickering flame. A flame he could ill afford to burn out. Aye. The solution was simple. He would return her to Simon in due course. Once in home port, the Striker would be handed over to the Admiralty office and catalogued. His men would be dispatched to their own vices, and Thomas Sexton would fade into obscurity until called for by Nelson’s Tea again. Constance would forget the part he’d played in her rescue, would be free to go on about her life. But none of the particulars held meaning now. He was physically exhausted after not having slept a good night’s sleep in too long a time. Frink was dead. His men would keep watch and see to it that he wasn’t disturbed.

A quick survey of the cabin revealed no other place to sleep. Dissatisfied by the thought of sleeping on the floor, he shrugged out of his wet shirt and cast off his breeches, wincing as the tight fabric brushed against the forgotten wound at his side. Testing his bloody flesh with his fingers, he returned to the desk and rummaged through it until he found some rolled bandages. He spread the wound and poured brandy in it, cringing as he untwined the gauze and wrapped the fabric around his abdomen. When his ministrations were finished, he glanced back at the bunk and then to the floor. He was in no condition or frame of mind to sleep on a hard surface. He needed a real bed, no matter that it was already occupied. The fact that he’d have to share it with Simon’s niece pricked his conscience. But the opportunity to share his body heat with someone who could reciprocate, especially if that person was a beautiful female, was irresistibly appealing.

What would Lady Constance do if she awoke and discovered him lying naked beside her? She already thought him a monster, a debaser of women. He chuckled softly. As captain, he had rights. Rights he was more than eager to demand. Damn, he also had a conscience.

Constance shivered and called out again. All thoughts of seduction gone, Percy slipped under the covers and pulled her against him. “There now. Shhh. You’re in no danger. Hold tight, little rose.”

She clung to his arms, digging her fingers into his flesh. Whatever place she’d gone to in her dreams, she wasn’t safe in her mind. He shifted her body toward him, positioning her upper leg over his. “There now. All is well. No one is going to hurt you, love. Sleep. I will keep watch. I
will
protect you.”

God, she felt good wrapped around him like a glove. The intimacy ignited his senses, thrummed his pulsing blood, filling his loins with undeniable hunger.

She sighed. Her breath settling into a steady rhythm.

Aye. Sleep would elude him — again.