The Rogue’s Prize (17 page)

lanterns, they grabbed the door to the

cabin, lifted it off of the hinge, and began

to repair it. Thump! Thump! Thump! The

sound hammered a warning that she

would not find it easy to maneuver past

any of them again.

Constance

sat

on

the

bunk

dejectedly watching the men work, knees

up to her chest, arms crossed. She gazed

about the room in frustration, loathing

the four walls of the cabin — thankful

she was alive. There was no accounting

for her stupidity. She’d risked their lives

for nothing.

The walls closed in. How long she

sat that way, she couldn’t be sure. Her

legs had grown stiff by the time she

noted the ship rocked slower than it did

before. Had the storm waned? Did that

mean the captain would be returning?

He’d sworn he wasn’t done with

her. What did that mean — wasn’t done

with her? Her hand covered her heart as

a chill swept over her. She gazed down

upon her wet clothes. She was not the

penniless waif she appeared to be. Or

was she?

Constance tugged at the wet clothes

sticking to her skin. If she didn’t find

something dry to wear, she’d catch a

chill. Desperate to keep a clear head,

especially if she’d be forced to banter

with the captain again, she remembered

the trunk. There had been plenty of dry

clothes to choose from inside it. At least

she remembered that much. Scurrying off

the bed, she opened the trunk lid and

searched through the contents. Nothing

within it was particularly tasteful, though

dry clothes were better than none.

Selecting one of the misbegotten

rags, she prayed no one in London

would ever see her dressed in them. And

perhaps, just perhaps, dressed in

trousers, she could escape notice by

posing as a cabin boy and running away

when they docked.

Who was she kidding? Constance

grabbed a handful of linen and wool and

sank back on her knees nearly in tears.

Her reasons for fleeing Burton

rematerialized and her father’s attempts

to marry her to the man appeared tame

compared to the calamity she now faced.

Choking back a sob, she inhaled a deep

breath. She would never find a love

match, not now, which made her father’s

intentions to control her life crueler than

ever before. Blinded by protecting his

good name, her father had been

determined to satisfy his debts without

regard for her feelings, her future. Had

he chosen to marry her to any other man,

she might have accepted. But Burton was

not a
normal
man. He drank too much,

smoked too much, wore too much

cologne, postured himself like a

brandied pig, and thought of himself

more highly than those in her father’s

circle. Morty had said it was rumored

among the help that those in his employ

lived like frightened dogs.

Constance shook visibly. What was

to become of her? Even if she did return

to London, Burton would never fulfill

his end of the bargain now. She was

ruined. And without having earned Aunt

Lydia’s help, Father would be unable to

satisfy his creditors. Humbled and

frightened, Constance rose and changed

into a pair of stained white naval

breeches and an overlarge shirt. Though

the garments smelled old and musty, she

was grateful for the worn wool and

reveled in the warmth provided to her

shivering limbs.

She turned toward the windows.

The sky parted, revealing glimmering

shards of moonlight dancing upon the

frothy swells. It would have been a

calming scene were it not for the fact

that she anticipated the captain’s return.

She had no idea how long it would be

before he stormed into the cabin.

Leaning back against the frame, she ran

her fingers along the window’s surface,

imagining what her future would have

been like if she hadn’t been forced to

marry Burton.

Images of a tall, dark, stranger

whose touch turned her limbs molten

came to mind. She stared at her fingers

— small, slender compared to his

thicker, stronger ones — remembering

how gentle this pirate’s touch had been

upon her breasts and how easily he’d

succeeded in awakening the woman

within her.

She shivered uncontrollably. Were

these not pirates? Had they not killed her

mother?

It would have been better if I’d

married for money,
she thought.
At least

I would have both my feet on dry

ground.

Her gaze strayed to the unmade

bunk and to the floor beside it. It took no

trouble at all to remember the sight of

her nightshift laying half-torn upon the

floor the morning after the
Octavia
sank,

or her reaction to the sight. In one fateful

night, her life had been irrevocably

changed. She was no longer a virgin.

She was unmarriageable now and yet,

she felt no different. She felt the same.

Her eyes suddenly widened. What

if she was already carrying a pirate’s

child? Constance placed her hands on

her stomach. How would she hide such a

disgrace?

A

key

turned

in

the

lock,

scrambling her thoughts. Had the

blackguard come at last to punish her for

trying to escape? She backed against the

window and held her breath, her

heartbeat thrumming inside her chest.

Every nerve was attuned to the sights

and sounds expended by the turning

knob. The door opened wide and the

captain materialized, filling the cabin

with his immense size. His expression

was unreadable and his eye fastened

upon her, imprisoning her there.

Effortlessly and soundlessly, he

closed the door behind him, turning the

key in the lock and placing it in his belt.

“How are you faring, wench?” he asked,

his voice deep and raspy.

A chill raced down Constance’s

spine and she said the first thing that

came to mind. “I’m not a wench.”

“Is that so?” His gaze raked her

head to foot, and then settled upon her

bosom. Hidden as she was, she still felt

his fiery gaze penetrate her rags. “You

have the right equipment.”

“You’re despicable!” she railed.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Why are you

hiding in the shadows?”

She crossed her arms over her

chest. “I’m not hiding.”

“Come away from the windows

then.”

“I prefer to stay where I am,” she

said. He might imprison her, but he

could not command her as he pleased.

“Come away from the windows,”

he ordered, his tone more sinister. An

angry scowl contorted his face and he

took a menacing step forward.

Constance

reacted

instantly,

stepping out of the shadows to move

directly to the opposite side of the room.

Her eyes never wavered from his face.

“You see me,” she goaded. “Are you

pacified?”

He scrutinized her appearance like

a starving man ogles sweet meat. She

gazed down at herself, curious. She’d

survived

the
Octavia
, Frink’s brutal

attack, nearly drowning in the hull,

because

of
him
,

because

of
his

generosity and protection. But she

distrusted him, and she especially

distrusted herself in his presence. In the

unnerving

silence,

her

heartbeat

quickened.

She stared back at him and for the

first time saw
him
, not as a pirate, but as

a woman sees a man. He was cleanly

dressed in his usual penchant for black.

He wore Hessians, cut above the knee,

emphasizing muscular thighs sculpted

above high-rimmed boots. Laces undone,

his open shirt revealed an indecent

amount of flesh and collarbone. She

blinked back memories of their intimate

embrace. Her fingertips ached to touch

his bare skin. She fisted her hands,

committing to memory every angle and

weathered line of his face, wondering

anew what had happened to his eye. Had

he lost it in battle? Alarmingly, her heart

thawed, for his pain, his disfigurement,

and the loss of his sight. He was a fine-

looking man even without an eye, though

she had to admit she hadn’t seen many

others.

He cleared his throat. “Are you

hungry?”

“What?” she asked, completely

taken off guard, suddenly worried he’d

read her mind.

“Are you hungry? You haven’t

eaten since before the storm.”

Constance gripped the edge of the

captain’s chair. “No,” she lied. Her

stomach growled.

“No?” he repeated. His brow rose

insolently. “No, you’re not hungry or no,

you have eaten since before the storm?”

“You have my answer,” she said.

“I’ll have cook heat up some

victuals.”

“I prefer to eat with Mrs.

Mortimer,” she said, hoping now would

be a good time to negotiate Morty’s

release.

“You will do anything for that old

crone, won’t you?”

She was set on her goal. “She’s

important to me.”

“More important than your own

safety?” he asked. He rounded the desk.

Her heart took flight and she backed

away from his advance. “Just how did

you expect to get to Spain in a gig when

this ship could barely manage that

storm?”

“You know very well why I risked

it,” she explained. “You’ve made it

plain that — ”

He took another step forward.

“Made what plain? Haven’t you learned

by now that I would do anything to

ensure your safety?”

She could no longer look him in the

eye. The only one she could trust was

herself, and not well enough, if her

actions were any indication. “Don’t ask

me to trust you,” she said.

He slammed his fist on the desk.

“What do I have to do to win your

trust?”

“Let me go,” she said.

He spun on his heel and released a

heavy sigh. “I can’t do that. Simon

would never forgive me if anything

happened to you.”

“Then, a favor,” she said. “Allow

Mrs. Mortimer to stay with me.”

He paced the floor before the desk.

“Why?”

“I desire her company.”

“I do not,” he vowed. He pretended

to organize papers on his desk. “Putting

the two of you together will only

encourage you to attempt something

ridiculous. The answer is no. I don’t

care how much you grovel.”

“Grovel? As if — ” She stopped

herself, remembering a lesson Mrs.

Mortimer had taught her.
You win more

with honey.
She angled the desk chair

between them. “What would help you

change your mind?”

“Good God, woman! I see your

impression of me will never change.”

“Why should it? You’re a pirate!”

A growl burst from his mouth as if

molten lava pressured his lungs. “Yes. I

am.” He worked a tick in his jaw.

Constance turned back toward the

window to hide her distress. She had

vowed not to cry in front of the rogue

and she was coming close to disgracing

herself. Her body shook. She clasped

her mother’s necklace between her

fingers and tried desperately to keep her

tears in check.

“It’s clear I’ve upset you,” he said

suddenly close. “I may be a pirate but I

am not beyond kindness.”

His footsteps receded. “Where are

you going?” she asked, turning around,

wiping her cheek.

“I am not going to get Mrs.

Mortimer, if that is your hope.”

Her shoulders sagged. “That’s not

what I meant.”

He stood with his back to her.

Energy waned in the room as he turned

the key in the deafening silence. He

stiffened. When she did not explain