The Rogue’s Prize (13 page)

guarantee that I will be able to maintain

my good behavior.”

Moving off the bed, he strode

across the room and began rummaging

through a trunk, throwing assorted

clothing in garish hues this way and that

at his sides. Kneeling on the floor to

reach into the bottom, he tossed her two

pieces of corbeau fabric, the color

hinting between dark green, black, and

death.

“These will do. Put them on.”

She caught the pieces mid-air.

Plying the fabric apart, she recognized a

pair of breeches and a muslin shirt.

“Put them on and be quick about it,”

he ordered. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

“I prefer privacy.” She straightened

her spine. “You will have to leave.”

He rose to his full height, balled his

fists, and took a step forward. “You’ll

put the clothes on or you’ll try something

else on for size. A tutorial I’d be more

than happy to oblige.”

His black breeches clung to his

muscular frame, leaving nothing to her

imagination.

Constance

jerked

the

clothes beneath the sheet and held it like

a barrier between them. Satisfied she

would do as he’d ordered, he walked to

the garish desk and busied himself with

papers scattered there. He did not leave.

“Turn your back, pirate!”

His gaze instantly narrowed upon

her. He growled low in his throat and

took a hasty step forward. Then mid-

stride, he stopped with fisted hands and

leaned back against the desk to cross his

arms over his chest.

“I do believe you
want
me to

watch, you haughty wench. Aye. It would

do my heart and my rudder good to give

you my dutiful attention.”

Constance realized her mistake as

Mrs. Mortimer’s words echoed in her

head.
A whiny woman drinks sour milk,

while a soft-spoken woman eats cream.

Her stomach growled, furthering her

shame.

“Do you plan to taunt me as well as

starve me?” she asked.

“To the one, I will do as I please.

To the other, your gut will thank me soon

enough.”

“The day will never come that I

thank you for anything.”

“Including your life?” he queried.

Her stomach growled unpleasantly.

Why did the man know exactly what she

needed and when? It was exasperating.

“You have saved my life. I’m grateful,

but I do not need anything else from

you,” she insisted.

“Liar.” As if on cue, her stomach

growled loudly. “Suit yourself,” he said

pointing to her clothes.

Frowning

with

embarrassment,

Constance reached for the shirt he’d

given her and put her arms through the

sleeves while keeping the sheet pulled

high over her breasts. The task proved

difficult but once she learned how to use

the sheet to her advantage, she was able

to dress with calculated ease. When

she’d tied the bodice in place at the

neck, she shyly directed her gaze at the

pirate. His heated expression proved

that his prying eyes had never once left

her person.

“It would be much easier if you

stood up,” he scolded.

His vulgarity sent a shock through

her system. Mrs. Mortimer had been the

only other human soul ever in attendance

during her toilette. It was positively

scandalous that she dressed in front of

this man, with or without a sheet. No

gentleman he. Even so, perseverance

held sway. She would rather confront the

man dressed than devoid of a stitch of

clothing. At least clothed, she stood to

regain some dignity. Drawing the odd-

fitting breeches over her legs, trousers

which fit loose around her waist and

snugly around her hips, it grew

somewhat easier to relax with a degree

of modesty salvaged.

He gifted her with applause.

“Bravo! Quite a performance.”

“You’re despicable,” she snapped.

“Why? I’ve seen everything you

have to offer, and more.”

She gasped. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. How do you expect

you slept so calmly last night, little rose?

Who do you think took off your wet

clothes and comforted you through your

feverish tremors?”

“You despicable lout!”

“Despicable

louts

are

often

comforted by naked women.”

Constance leaped off the bunk and

rushed toward him, her nails bared to

scratch out his good eye. But he

extended his long arms and his hands

caught hold of her before she could do

any damage. He laughed, turning her

around in his iron-clad embrace. He then

pressed his groin against her backside

and whispered huskily, “I dare what I

want, when I want.”

His hands braced her against his

rock hard body. Frightened by his

obvious arousal, she struggled to regain

her freedom.

“Resisting

me

is

pointless,

Constance. I know what you need and

I’m more than willing to provide. Only

say the word and I will gladly show you

how thrilling it is to sail with a pirate.”

“I’d die first,” she hissed.

“So you’ve said and nearly done.”

“You’re a vile, despicable beast!”

she railed.

“A hungry beast,” he said close to

her ear, taking one lobe between his

teeth.

The hair on her neck stood on end

as his breath energized her skin all the

way to her lower extremities. Sensations

prickled along her spine as his lips

traced light kisses from her ear to her

shoulder. Unbelievably, Constance felt

her body reacting to his touch. Her legs

weakened,

her

womb

constricted

strangely, and she let out a defeated

moan. Encouraged, he pushed her blouse

down the top of her shoulder and flicked

his tongue across her neck, working up

to her ear in a circular pattern.

“I’ll not pluck your petals unless

you allow it, sweeting,” he whispered.

“Never,” she moaned.

“So you say now. Mark my words

— you’ll be craving what I can give you

before long.”

His hands led a full assault on her

senses, inching up her stomach until his

fingers wrapped around both of her

breasts, teasing the neglected buds into

expectant peaks. Constance covered his

hands with her own in an effort to

remove them and sucked in a struggling

breath, trying desperately to douse the

engulfing fire coursing through her veins.

“Remember what a real man feels

like, Constance,” he said, huskily,

pressing against her. “Hard where you

are soft, strong where you are weak.”

His breath, his words tapped her

strength. Her legs nearly buckled as he

nuzzled her neck and continued the

assault on her awakening body.

“Remember the heat between us

when you’re cold and aching with

want.”

Constance moaned as his lips

traced kisses along the length of her

shoulder. Never before had she felt so

adrift. She leaned into him, completely

lost in the moment, eager to absorb his

strength. Desperate to taste his lips

before she collapsed weakly to the floor,

she turned her head toward his. But she

met empty space. No sooner had she

given up fighting his seduction, she

found herself indelicately propped

against the desk. Gathering her wits,

trying to understand what had just

occurred, she heard the cabin door slam

shut. Angered that she had just betrayed

herself, she ran toward the door, latched

onto the knob and threw it open to spin

his head with her insults. But instead of

catching the man who’d just humiliated

her, she came face to face with a dirty

scoundrel bearing a toothless grin,

sporting eyes as round as glass beads.

“Well. Well. Look at the cat what’s

jumped in my lap,” the strange man

yapped like a gutter dog.

Constance backed into the room,

desperate to escape the filthy man. With

a sudden boost of courage, she slammed

the door in the jackal’s face. Then,

leaning back on the portal, she berated

herself for coming so close to giving in

to her enemy against her own better

judgment. It was apparent, now more

than ever, that she had to find a way to

regain her freedom. For all intents and

purposes, she’d been compromised. The

only hope she had for rectifying her

father’s downfall was making it to Spain

and begging for Aunt Lydia’s help.

London held no future for her now.

Things as they were, Constance would

rather die trying to help her father, then

return home in disgrace, and be forced to

marry Lord Burton and spend a lifetime

of misery in his household.

Yet how was it her body ignited

beneath her enemy’s caress when

Burton’s touch filled her with horrible

misgivings? Surely the opposite should

be true. Burton was a member of the ton,

the pirate wasn’t. Was she doomed to

end up on the streets, cast out of society?

She couldn’t allow it to happen. She

needed a plan.

First, it was imperative that she

contact Mrs. Mortimer. She’d been told

her childhood governess was in another

cabin. But with a guard posted at her

door, how would she be able to find

her? Her gaze scanned the captain’s

cabin until a thought sparked her into

motion. Hurrying over to the captain’s

desk, she pored over the various papers

there, hoping to find a blueprint of the

ship. Once found and researched, she

was sure it would provide information

she needed to locate Morty and collect

her. From there, she and Mrs. Mortimer

could escape using one of the gigs above

deck.

Yes, it was a sound plan. Once she

arrived in Spain, she would locate Aunt

Lydia and use her connections to report

the
Striker
’s activities, to include turn in

the pirate who was a threat to more than

her life.

• • •

death of him. Percy strolled out onto the

Striker
’s deck and inhaled a lung’s

breath of salty air, letting the stinging

breeze fill his nostrils and cool his

ardor. He loved the sea, had felt a

kinship to it since he’d enlisted in the

navy as a young man — against his

father’s wishes and rules of the peerage

— using a name that would not bring his

father shame. It had taken years to mend

the rift his rebellious act had caused

within his family.

Percy wanted nothing more than to

please his father, to make life right again

for the old man. For many years, he’d

consigned his soul to Simon Danbury,

director of a secretive group of patriots

bound to do anything within their power

to protect England’s shores and the

country from within. No sacrifice had

been too great. No deprivation too

weighty. He’d willingly cast the mold of

foppish Percival Avery in order to

maintain his secret identity. The creation

of his alter ego was his complete

opposite in every way. Underneath his

mask of disguise, nothing mattered but

revenge. To members of society,

publicly to his father and his many

acquaintances, frivolity ruled the day.

No one suspected he’d enlisted into

Frink’s ranks. His acquaintances thought

him away on sabbatical, venturing to

unknown lands before responsibilities

tied him to London and his future role as

the Seventh Duke of Blendingham.

Simon had never needed to ask for

his assistance on this particular mission.

He was the first to comprise his crew,

the first to communicate with Whistler,

Nelson’s agent behind enemy lines.

Though Whistler’s identity remained

secret from everyone but Simon, Percy

believed the mole would be the driving