Page 5 of A Pirate’s Pleasure (Cameron Family #2)

III

W hen she was settled in the seat behind his desk, he retrieved her coverlet, tossing it over her shoulders. Skye grasped at the garment and sat there stiffly. He moved across the room to his trunk and drew out clothing. He looked her way, arching his brows, and she flushed furiously, turning aside as he dressed. She felt his eyes upon her as he buttoned his shirt and tied his breeches, then sat to pull on his high black boots.

“So, tell me, milady, why is it that you are so afraid of the dark?”

“I am not afraid of the dark,” she lied ridiculously.

“You are not?”

“No.”

“That’s a lie.”

She shrugged. “A gentleman would allow a lady the lie.”

“But I’m not a gentleman. I’m a pirate, remember.”

“Oh, yes. A nasty, brutal beast, and I’ve nothing to say to you upon any account.”

He rose. She still did not look his way, but shivers claimed her despite her best efforts as he moved around behind her. He did not touch her, but his hands fell upon the back of the chair where she sat and his head lowered so that she could hear and feel his whisper. “Nasty and brutal, Lady Kinsdale? Alas! I fear that if I keep my distance, I will dearly disappoint you! You’ve suffered no beatings as yet, mam’selle. The only violence that has come your way has been that given in retribution for your own intent of murder. Bear this in mind.”

Skye stiffened, her fingers curling into the handsomely carved arms of the chair, her gaze remaining straightforward. How she hated this man! she thought. Hated his laughter and his mockery, hated his power. Just as she hated the haunting sound of his whispers and the curve of his smile, and the fine, taut musculature of his body. He was an animal! she thought. A pirate. A vile knave, a beast.

But a striking beast, bold, determined, and blunt. If she were not his prisoner, she might very well find him charismatic, his form alluring, his less-than-subtle innuendo exciting.…

Dear God, she was a captive losing her mind! He was young enough, perhaps, despite the silver that tinted his hair and beard. And his speech was cultured, his manner sometimes even inoffensive. But he was a cutthroat, no more, no less, and she would still fight him and hate him until her dying breath.

“Nothing to say, my love?” He plucked up a tendril of her hair. His fingers brushed her shoulder where the coverlet had fallen away and she was startled by the searing sensation that swept through her. She slapped his hand away, still staring forward, trembling. “Nothing but the obvious, sir. Your teeth may be better than One-Eyed Jack’s, but you are still the same monster as he was. No better.”

He laughed, straightening, and going for the broadsword that lay upon the floor. “I do beg to differ, milady. Had he lived, and had you spent the night in his cabin, I think you would have discovered a vast difference twixt the two of us.”

“Really? Perhaps were I tavern slut, I might have managed to say, ‘what a wonder! The man has his teeth, and for garbage, his stench is not too severe.’ But I am no tavern wench, sir, and from where I sit, refuse is refuse, and all to be abhorred.”

His laughter was swift and genuine. “Ah, from your lofty heights, mam’selle! I don’t wish to disturb such noble ideals, but I tell you this in all truth, a woman is a woman, and a man must be judged by his measure, and not by his position upon this earth. The finest lady, the most noble duchess, tumbles upon the mattress much the same as the tavern wench. She learns to long and ache and desire in the same fashion, to whisper her lover’s name, to curl to his caress and strain to his form.” He came back behind her, bending over her. “And she learns so much more quickly when he still has all of his teeth!”

“Your conceit is extraordinary.”

He faced her and lifted her chin. “That you can doubt my words, mam’selle, lends credence to the very truth of them. There is a grave difference. Had you spent your night in Jack’s cabin, you’d not have awakened thinking there could be no difference in men.”

She wanted to wrench from him. He held his grip. “I did not say men, sir. I spoke of refuse—pirates.”

“Such harsh words, milady! When I carry still in the boundaries of my heart your sweet promise to please me in any way, to offer any diversion I might desire.”

“Diversion!”

His lip began to curl with humor. She did twist her chin from his grip. She raised her hand with a vengeance, halfway rising, determined to strike him. She just barely caught his cheek before his fingers wound around her wrist. He twisted his jaw and she was pleased that she had hurt him, then she was suddenly frightened, for a pulse ticked against his throat and she did not care to be hurt in return, and she had definitely angered him as well. She sank slowly back into the chair, her eyes locked with his. She already knew that when the soft silver darkened to a cobalt blue, his temper was flaring. But he did not strike out at her in return. He swallowed, as if he clamped down on his temper. His smile returned. “Were you aware, milady, that you’ve splendid breasts?”

“What?” she gasped. Her eyes fell downward where the coverlet had fallen from her and where her flesh now lay bare to him. She must have been cold, for her nipples protruded like hardened rosebuds against the mounds.

“Oh!” she swore, and she sought, clumsily, to strike him again and retrieve her covering at the same time. He was not about to be struck again and caught her wrist quickly and easily. “Madame, I am patient, but I do have my limits. So far you’ve tried to slice my throat and dislodge my jaw. Do take care!” His husky laughter irritated her to no end, but she lowered her head, seeking desperately to free her hand, to recover herself. She glanced up at him quickly and went still, for the color of his eyes had changed again. They had gone to a warm, smoke color, and they remained upon her person, then slowly met hers. She did not quite understand the message in his eyes, but her breath caught in her throat and her blood surged throughout her limbs with a sizzling force. Something in her abdomen coiled tightly and she desperately moistened her lips. “Please!” she gasped out, unaware of just what it was that she requested.

He freed her wrist. She lowered her eyes, drawing the coverlet about her. She sought desperately for something to say.

“I, er, I did not promise—diversion!”

“Ah, but you did promise me…what was it…? Anything! I do believe that is what you said,” he reminded her, laughing. He turned from her and picked up his hat and set it upon his head. “I shall be waiting, mam’selle. Thank God that I am a patient man!” He paused just a moment longer, belting his scabbard and cutlass to his side, and taking the broadsword beneath his arm. He took a dirk from the bookcase and cast her a wry glance. “I wonder if it is safe to leave you with the serving tray. Ah, yes, bless Cookie, he is a man of rare good sense. He has sent a spoon and not a knife for the jam. Take care, my dear, until we meet again.”

With a sweeping flourish of his hat, he left her. She sat still until she heard the bolts slide into place at the doors. Then she leaped up, led by instinct, slamming against them.

She was locked in once again.

She swore violently and was overcome with a sense of panic and desolation. Shrieking aloud, she stormed about and sent the tray with the coffee and rolls flying. The porcelain cups shattered and the jam jar cracked in two, spilling out blood red strawberry preserves. Skye stood still looking upon the havoc she had wreaked, the coverlet still wrapped about her shoulders. She was startled when the doors burst open again and she discovered that the Silver Hawk had returned.

He stood in the doorway, exceptionally tall in his plumed hat and high boots. His eyes sizzled silver and blue and they fell upon her with a shimmering anger.

“Brat!” he exploded.

And he was striding her way with purpose.

Skye gasped out and turned to run, but there was nowhere to go. She collided with the bookshelves and too hastily turned from them, and tripped. In a tangle of covers she fell facedown on the bunk. Gulping for air, she tried to twist and turn, but he was upon her by then, his weight falling hard upon hers. His arms stretched out and his hands fell upon hers, his fingers lacing with her own.

“Let me go!” she cried out fiercely.

But she had no effect upon him at all at that moment. She kicked, she flailed, she bit at him, catching his arm so savagely with her teeth that he let out a roar. To her vast dismay she realized that he was sitting then and that she was being dragged relentlessly over his lap. Her coverlet was stripped away with every twist and movement and she was both swearing and sobbing in her desperation to elude him. But at that moment, he was ruthless.

“Nearly sliced, broken, and now bitten!” he grated out furiously. “Cups shattered, property destroyed—”

“Property destroyed! Those words from a pirate!” she cried.

The irony of it eluded him. He held her in a vise against him and she could not even twist to see his face, to brush her hair from its tangle over her eyes and mouth.

“Mam’selle, I have had it!” he said. “Act like a child and you’ll be treated as one!”

A shriek exploded from her as his hand fell with a searing force upon the exposed and tender curve of her derriere. Tears stung her eyes from both the startling pain of his blow and the humiliation of it. Wretchedly she stretched over the burning muscles of his thighs, her face in the covers as she struggled to be free. She could not bear it. She twisted, crying out again. She hated him! She wanted to take whatever he dished out to her with dignity and silence. She wanted to bear any pain.

And she could not. She could not stand this awful indignity.

His hand was rising again. “Please! Stop!” she sobbed out.

And to her amazement, he did.

His teeth clenched together, his hand slowly fell. He shoved her from his lap and she went to the floor in a disheveled pile of covers and tousled hair. She landed hard on her rump and she nearly screeched again, for he had injured her sorely, and she imagined then that it would be a number of days before she managed to sit comfortably again.

“Damn you!” he muttered darkly.

He stood, stepping over her. She didn’t see him look back her way because her head had fallen and her hair hid her eyes. “Pick up this mess!” he ordered her succinctly, each word enunciated slowly.

She tossed back her hair, heedless that her eyes were filled with tears. She opened her mouth to tell him that although he was pirate and she was his prisoner, she would never, never obey him. But he spoke first.

“You will do it, Skye, whether I am a bastard pirate or not! You will do it because I have ordered you to do so, and because I promise you that you will rue the day if you do not, and because that is a threat, and as I have warned you, I carry out all threats. If you find it prudent to defy me over jam, then you are truly a fool, and deserve whatever fate awaits you!”

His hands were on his hips, his long legs were outstretched, and his boots were firmly cast upon the floor. His silver eyes sizzled and burned a startling dark silver, and she knew how he had gotten his name. The line of his mouth was grim against the curl of his mustache and the dark fur of his beard, and in that particular moment, she had no more will to fight him.

“Mam’selle! Do you comprehend me?”

“Yes!”

She saw the expression in his eyes soften and he moved his hand, as if he would touch her, almost as if he wanted to reach out to her. Then he swore and snorted, and spun around.

Then he was gone. The doors slammed and the bolts slid in his wake. Skye stared after him, not breathing.

Then she gulped in air and cast herself against the floor and gave way to a flood of tears.

An hour later, after a great deal of reflection, she determined that she would clean the mess she had made. She brooded long and hard over the action, but in the end, she had to agree that the pirate had made one good point—a jar of jam was not worth this awful humiliation.

She picked up the tray and the shattered porcelain and glass and cleaned the floorboards with a linen napkin. When she was done, she approached the windows and pulled back the drapes. She was startled to see that the sun was already fallen. They must have slept very late into the day. Night was coming again already.

She tied the draperies by their cords, eager for the light that remained. The lamp had gone out and the stove had issued its last warmth and light. Skye knotted her fingers into her fists.

He would leave her here again, she thought. Locked in as darkness fell. He would see her reduced to a groveling fool once again, and he would laugh all the while. He would assume that she deserved it.

There was a knock upon the door. Startled, she whirled. She did not think that the Silver Hawk would be knocking. She pulled the coverlet tightly around her shoulders. “Yes?” she called softly.

The door opened and the handsome young man the pirate had called Arrowsmith walked in, somewhat burdened by the weight of one of her traveling trunks.

“This is yours, I believe?” he said.

“Yes,” Skye said.

“Then you’ll excuse me if I put it down. ’Tis heavy! What on earth is it that you women carry?”

“I’m sure you’ve taken plunder enough to know the answer to that!” she retorted.

He grimaced. “No, milady. We ransom off our plunder, just as we do our hostages.”

“You’ll swing by the neck for it, just the same.”

“Perhaps.” He grinned, setting down her trunk next to his master’s trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until we reach the Caribbean for me to bring you the rest of your trunks,” he said apologetically. “The captain went through this one and thought that it offered all that you might require for the next few days of travel.”

“The captain—went through it?”

“Yes, milady.”

She thought that she would scream her outrage, but she kept silent. Her clothing and jewels were valuable plunder. She was probably lucky that he had decided to clothe her.

“I shall take this away,” Arrowsmith said. He smiled and picked up the tray with the broken cups without blinking. He turned to leave the room.

“Wait, please!” Skye said. He was a pirate, too, she reminded herself. Even if he was young and handsome and even gentle in his way. He stopped, looking to her.

“Could you…light a lamp for me, please? It is growing dark.”

“I shall take care of it, Robert.”

Startled, they both looked to the doorway. The Silver Hawk had returned.

“Aye, Captain, as you wish it.” Robert Arrowsmith inclined his head toward Skye and exited the room, brushing by his captain. The Silver Hawk came into the room, turning his back to her and, with slow purpose, closing the doors. He turned around again, leaning against them. He looked over the floor, and over Skye, and to the foot of the bunk where her trunk now lay.

“I came to light the lamp for you, milady,” he said softly.

She said nothing, standing still and awaiting his next move. It was a long time in coming. He strode across the room and lit the wick of the lamp. The glow filled the room. Skye lowered her head in a turmoil. She had thought that he would exploit her fear, that he would purposely leave her to her terror of the darkness.

He had not.

And yet it wouldn’t be proper to thank the vile pirate for the kind gesture, would it? Not after all that he had done to her.

He set the lamp into its protected niche. “We head south with a good wind. It will be too warm for the fire, I believe, but the light should be good enough.”

Skye swallowed and nodded.

“I had thought to find you dressed by now.”

“The trunk just arrived.”

“Yes. Find something. I will help you don your clothing, and you can come on deck for an hour or so.”

Her eyes widened and she bit into her lip. “I can dress myself, thank you.”

“Shall I choose for you?”

There was an edge to his voice. They were engaging in battle again.

Eventually, she thought with a shiver, he would wear her down. Their strange encounters were unnerving her completely.

“Sir, I tell you—”

“I shall choose then.” He strode toward her trunk. She found herself running after him, catching his arm, then was dismayed by her action. She gazed at her hand where it rested upon him and recoiled swiftly, startled by the blood that had hardened upon his shirt. She stared at him in horror.

“You’re—bleeding.”

“I was bleeding, milady. A shrew with sharp teeth caught hold of my flesh.”

She swallowed, her eyes locked with his.

“It is no matter, Lady Kinsdale. If you’ll excuse me—”

“No! You needn’t go into my things again. You had no right to do so before. Sir, I tell you—”

“Milady, I tell you. You had no difficulty riffling through my belongings to find that wretched broadsword. I found no difficulty in disturbing your belongings for a far more gentle mission, that of seeing you clad!”

He was already upon his knees, casting back the unlocked lid of her chest. He found a corset and tossed it back down, then procured a simple shift and a linen gown with short sleeves. It was a soft, cool blue with white lace trim and she had purchased it with thoughts of the long hot Virginia summers in mind.

“This one,” he muttered.

She flushed furiously that his hands should be upon her apparel. She tried to shove him aside, taking up the corset he had dropped. “If you will just leave me—”

“I will not. And drop that whalebone torture creation. You don’t need stockings, either. Even with the breeze, it is warm this evening.”

“Mr. Hawk!” she snapped in exasperation. “Is it Hawk? Or is it Mr. Silver? I mean, really, sir, just how does one address you?” she demanded irritably.

He sat back on his haunches and his slow grin curled into his lip. “I think that I might like the sound of ‘milord,’ from your lips, Lady Kinsdale. Or perhaps, ‘my dear lord.’”

“Never,” Skye said flatly.

“Then ‘Hawk’ will do, milady. Come, let’s see you clad in this piece of summer’s frivolity.”

Skye straightened to her full height. “Sir, this will be done by violence only.”

“If that’s the way you choose it,” he said with a shrug, rising and taking a step toward her. “The manner is of no difference to me.”

“Stop!” Skye pleaded, backing away from him. She hadn’t the energy for the fight. Her flesh still burned from his earlier, less than tender touch. She promised herself that she hated him still with a vengeance, but for the moment, she needed to lick her wounds and recoup her energy.

He stood still, watching her. She lifted her arms and dropped the coverlet from about her shoulders. She meant to keep her eyes on his but she could not, and her eyes fell in shame.

“Oh, you will quit playing Ophelia!” he said in harsh exasperation. He stepped forward, but took his time easing her plight, raising her chin and meeting her eyes. His gaze passed quickly over the length of her. “Milady, the silk stockings must go. Clad only in them, you are most provocative.”

If she had thought to shame him, she had sadly miscalculated, and her own temper flew back to a new high as he lifted her from the floor and tossed her nonchalantly upon the bed to strip away her stockings, all that remained of her clothing from the previous day.

Skye swore, she flailed at him. He avoided her pummeling with amusement and quickly did away with the offending garments. “Calm down!” he charged her. And capturing her shoulders, he straddled her. She wasn’t aware at first that he had her shift, and that he was trying to slip it over her shoulders. “Lady Kinsdale, I do swear, it is far more difficult to dress you than it has ever been to charm and unclothe any tender maid in all of my days.”

“I daresay you’ve never known a tender maid!” Skye retorted. She quickly slipped her arms into the silken straps of the garment and faced him again, flushed and furious. He stood by the bed, watching her with a curious expression, his eyes the color of fog and steel, a pallor seeming to touch his face. She noted that his fists were clamped hard at his sides. He did not rise to her retort. It occurred to Skye that her shift defined more than it concealed, that her breasts were pressed strainingly against the bodice of the gossamer undergarment, and that the line of her hip and the soft triangle at the juncture of her thighs were hauntingly evident.

“Why do you humiliate me like this!” she cried suddenly. “Why this slow torture—”

“Milady, I promise,” he interrupted her dryly, “the torture I do is to myself.”

“Then…”

“Then what?”

“Then…stop it!” she whispered.

“Alas,” he murmured, and the word carried a tender and wistful sound, “I have discovered that I cannot.” He turned swiftly away from her, finding the dress. “Come, Skye, let’s set this upon your shoulders and ease both our souls.”

Skye…

He had used her given name. He had used it with the ease of a friend or relation, or of a lover. She should have despised the sound of it upon his tongue, but she did not. She should have ignored his command, but she could not. She crawled from the bed and stepped to him slowly. She reached up as he deftly set the yards of muslin over her head and arms. He twirled her around and set to the twenty-one tiny buttons that closed the dress. He was deft with his movement, as if he was well-acquainted with women’s fashion. She began to tap a bare toe as his fingers brushed her back.

“Are you done?” she inquired.

“Umm. You intended to do this alone?”

“The intent of such a gown is to have one’s maids along. But since those poor lasses have fallen prey to your men…”

He was undaunted. “That is why, mam’selle, you must be grateful for my assistance.”

“Grateful!” She pulled away, and whirled about. “May we go?”

“If you wish.” But he reached down into her trunk again and plucked from it her silver initialed brush. “Your hair resembles an ill-kept bird’s nest.”

“That is hardly my fault.”

“But if you don’t care, lady, then I must. Come to me, and I’ll make some semblance of golden curls from that thatch yet.”

“I care!” Skye cried quickly. On her bare feet she hurried forward, snatching the brush from his fingers. She tried to work through the length of her thick tendrils quickly, but she was nervous and tugged and tore far more than she cared to admit. He emitted some impatient sound and stepped forward with purpose, snatching the brush away again. “Turn!” he ordered her. Gritting her teeth, she did so.

Again, his fingers were deft. There was no tenderness to his touch, but he was apt and able, and with little pain to her, the dreadful knots caused by the wind and tempest of the storms outside and inside the captain’s cabin were quickly untangled. Her hair fell about her back and shoulders in soft, shimmering waves.

“It is an unusual color,” he commented almost idly. “It is neither gold nor red.”

She turned around, smiling succinctly. “It is the color of thatch, so you said.”

“Ah, yes, thatch,” he agreed, and smiled. Her eyes narrowed and she swung around again, waiting for the door to open. He came around and opened it for her. He offered her his arm. She chose to ignore it, staring straight ahead.

“Skye, take my arm, else resign yourself to this cabin for the length of the voyage.”

He spoke the truth, and she knew it. She took his arm and he politely opened the door.

Sunset was coming. The very sight of the spectacular colors streaking across the heavens gave a curious thrill to her heart. The world had fallen apart. She had fallen prey to the true monsters that roamed the seas. Her own captain lay dead and surely floated in some watery grave. Crew had fought and died, and infamy had ensued. She had spent the night in the company of one of the four most notorious pirates about…and still, the sunset spoke of hope.

It was glorious. It was red and gold and all the shades in between. The sun itself was a glorious orb falling slowly into the cobalt and azure of the sea. The colors seemed to stretch into eternity.

“Now I know the color,” he murmured suddenly behind her.

“What?” she said, turning to him.

His eyes, smoke now, fell upon hers. “Your hair. It is the color of this sunset.” He was silent only a moment. “Come on. I am taking the helm. You may stay at my side for a while.”

He gave her no choice but to come, holding her tightly as they walked across the decking from his cabin past huge cleats and piles of rigging and canvas sail until they came to the carved steps that led to the wheel. Men saluted, doffing their caps to her, smiling their knowing smiles. She felt her cheeks grow warm and she did not respond, but she tried to raise her chin.

“Evening, Captain!” came a cry from the crow’s nest.

“Evening, Jacko. Is she clear?”

“Clear as the sound o’ my sweet mother’s voice, captain! It seems we’ve weathered the storms, and moved into clear weather.”

“That’s fine to hear, Jacko.”

“Milady, you’re looking well!” the man called.

Skye did not reply to him. The Hawk laughed and answered in her stead. “Perhaps, Jacko, the lady, too, has weathered the storm of the previous night and seeks calm seas this eve!”

Jacko laughed. Skye was certain that she heard subtle sneering sounds from all about her, but then maybe she had imagined them. The Hawk’s men seemed more cheerful than licentious. They were a well-disciplined lot for scourges of the sea, she thought. And they were clean for pirates. And neatly garbed.

Hawk led her around to a carved wood seat that curved around the wheel, built into the superstructure of the ship. The man at the wheel saluted Hawk, nodded very properly to her, and gave over the helm. “The course is set south, southeasterly, sir!”

“Fine, Thompkins. We’ll keep her so. You are at leisure, Mr. Thompkins.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thompkins responded. He saluted again and left the helm. The Hawk took the huge wheel, legs spread firm and apart as he stood and surveyed the sea from behind it. They might have been alone in the world, Skye thought, for the sea and sky seemed so very vast. The sunset falling portside was still a sight of crystalline beauty and the wind was gentle and balmy.

She drew her bare toes up beneath her and leaned her head back, feeling the wind. She should be thinking of some new way to slay him, she thought. She should not let another night pass by. She desperately needed to find a way to salvage life and dignity and honor from this fiasco.

But she was weary and unarmed and the air was gentle and soft. She needed to regain her strength, to find the will and energy and way to defy him.

She opened her eyes, and discovered that he was no longer watching the sea. He was watching her.

“What!” she cried irritably. “What is it that you want out of me!”

He shrugged and glanced toward the sea once again. “I am curious, Lady Kinsdale, and that is all.”

“Curious, why?”

“That a woman raised as you have been—a God-fearing lass, born into the peerage—can take her vows so lightly.”

She stiffened. “I do not take promises lightly, sir. Not unless they are given to the rodents and snakes.”

“A promise, milady, is a promise.”

“Not—”

“Yes, milady, a promise, even given to me, is a promise.”

“You are a rake and a rogue and a—”

“Pirate! It is a most noble profession, milady! Why that dear great lady, Queen Elizabeth herself, encouraged the profession. Sir Francis Drake was a pirate, you know. Anytime that England has been at war with the Spanish or French, pirating has been called noble!”

“Drake was a privateer—”

“Pirate!” he claimed, laughing. “Or, to be a thief is fine—as long as we steal from other nations!”

Skye turned away, looking westward toward the sunset. “You would compare One-Eyed Jack with Sir Francis Drake.”

“No, I would compare One-Eyed Jack with Attila the Hun, for both were cold-blooded murderers.”

“Oh? Are there good pirates and bad?”

“Of course. There are the good and the bad in all peoples.”

“You are scum,” she said sweetly.

“And you are changing the subject. Consider then that we have established that I am scum. Let’s return to you.”

“Let’s not.”

He ignored her words. “To promises.”

“I have already told you—”

“That you are not beholden to keep a promise to me. Because I am scum. But what of your fiancé?”

“What?”

“You intend to breech your promise to him.”

“I never voiced any such promise!” Skye declared. Then, furious that she had replied to him, she turned again. “It is none of your business, you—”

“Cease. I tire of the barbs in your tongue.”

“I tire of your presence.”

“That can easily be rectified. Come, I will return you to your prison.”

“Can’t you please let me be! Have you no mercy within you?”

“I am afraid, milady, that you cannot expect ‘scum’ to come equipped with mercy.”

“Oh!” she cried, frustrated. “What is all this to you anyway?”

“I am curious.”

“Why?”

“Pure and simple, milady. I wonder if the dear fellow will or will not be willing to pay for your return.”

Skye drew her knees up beneath her, folded her hands upon them, and rested her chin there. “It matters not if he pays or not. My father will ransom me.”

“But what if your father has had a bad year? Most of his fortune comes from his holdings on the islands. It’s been a bad year for the sugar plantations.”

“Lord Cameron will pay!” she snapped.

“He will pay for you, even tarnished as you are?”

“I am not tarnished!” she snapped. Then she lowered her eyes slightly, for it was by a curious mercy on his part that she was not, and she did not wish to test that mercy. Then she remembered his touch and his eyes, and the fact that sitting was still difficult because of a certain placement of his hand upon her bare anatomy. “I am only slightly tarnished,” she amended, and he laughed softly.

“I think you are right,” he said. “I think that Cameron will pay for you, no matter how tarnished you should become. You see, he is a man who knows how to keep a promise. He was pledged as a child, but from respect for his deceased father’s wishes, I am sure that he will pay.”

She glanced at him sharply. He was watching the sea once again. She cried softly, “You know him! You know the man to whom I am engaged.”

He did not reply for a moment.

“You know him!” Skye cried once again.

“Aye, I know him.”

“How!” She hadn’t realized that she had stood, or that she had moved, until she saw that her hand rested upon his where it lay against the mighty wheel. She flushed and quickly drew away her touch. “How do you know him?”

He shrugged. “He intercedes sometimes when I return hostages. We meet on Bone Cay. I have—holdings—there.”

“Then—then I will not be a prisoner long?” she whispered.

A lazy smile touched his lips and one of his dark brows arched. “Long enough, milady.”

She drew away from him and turned about. “What is he like?”

“Petroc Cameron?”

“Yes.”

“He is like me.”

“What!” she stormed, whirling around with great indignation.

His laughter was deep and husky and seemed to fill the night, and his eyes sparkled a fascinating silver. “At least you are quick to leap to his defense!”

“He is a gentleman. You are—”

“Un-uh. Watch it, lady. I am weary.”

“You are a—pirate,” she said. She meant “scurvy rodent,” and they both knew it. His jaw twisted, but he was still amused. She was, after all, she admitted ruefully, broken down to a certain control.

“He is like me,” the Hawk said, “because he is my cousin.”

She gasped so awfully that she choked. He patted her firmly upon the back and quickly apologized. “Milady, please do not have apoplexy upon me! You needn’t fear the future so intensely upon my account. He is a second cousin of sorts. And I, of course, poor slime, am from the wrong side of the sheets several generations back. The Camerons do not like to speak of it, of course, and they admit nothing. But when you meet your dear betrothed, you will see that there can be no real denial, for the Lord Cameron and I do bear a certain resemblance to one another.”

Skye sank back into her seat, staring at him dismally. “And you would tarnish your own cousin’s fiancée?” she demanded.

“There is no love lost between us.”

“But—”

“And remember, milady, as of this moment, you are only ‘slightly’ tarnished. And if rumor stands correct, you intend to dishonor your bethrothal anyway.”

“That is mere speculation.”

“To many. You forget. I know you.”

“You do not know me at all!”

“I am learning more about you with each passing hour, Lady Kinsdale.”

“Again, you show your conceit.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. “Governor Spotswood hates pirates! He will catch you one day and he will hang you high, and I will make you one promise now that I will keep. The day that they hang you I will be there with bells on. I will watch with the greatest glee.”

“Bloodthirsty wench,” he said.

“In your case, Sir Rogue!”

He laughed, letting go the wheel, turning to her. She wished to escape his nearness but it was too late. He caught her hands and bowed low so that their faces nearly touched and he all but whispered into her lips. “Milady, one day I promise—a promise that will be kept!—you will call me ‘lord’ and you will bow to my command!”

“Never!” she promised, but the cry was but a whisper, too, and that against his lips. He so nearly brushed her flesh! So nearly met his mouth to hers. A hammering came to her, and it was the sound of her heart. She heard the rush of the ocean, then realized that it was her blood, cascading and steaming within her. Surely, he saw how she trembled. He would know…

Know what? she demanded desperately of herself.

She did not find the answer for someone nearby cleared his throat and the Hawk straightened. Robert Arrowsmith stood with one foot upon the first step to the helm.

“I’ve laid the lady’s supper out in your cabin, Captain.”

The Hawk reached for her hand, drawing her to her feet, his eyes deep and hard upon hers. “Mr. Arrowsmith will escort you to the cabin.” His voice lowered. “You needn’t fear. The lanterns are already lit.”

He did not wait for a reply but handed her over to Robert. Robert escorted her past the rigging and to the cabin door. “Good night, milady,” he said to her.

And the doors were closed and bolted. But as the Hawk had promised, two lanterns burned brightly, illuminating the water left for her to wash and the meal left for her upon the Hawk’s desk. She would never eat, she thought. But it had been endless hours since she had last eaten and she quickly realized that she was famished and that the stew left for her smelled wonderful.

She sat down. It was a fresh fish stew, she quickly realized, thick with potatoes and carrots. The bread at her side was fresh, too, and vermin free. With less than ladylike manners she set into it, and when she paused at last, she realized that she had consumed it all.

She hadn’t even bothered to pour herself some of the burgundy left for her. She did so then, reflecting on the night.

He would not hurt her. He had told her so. If she took care, she would be rescued soon enough.

If her father had the ransom, she thought dully.

Or if Lord Cameron was still willing to come to her aid.

She was only slightly tarnished.…

Restlessly, she stood. The food had been wonderful. It had left her with a sense of well-being. The wine was good, too. It went down well, and it eased away the fear and the pain. She was still so very tired.

She looked from the washbowl and French soap and sponge to the door, wondering when he would burst back in upon her. Nervously she dug into her trunk for a substantial nightdress, and even more nervously she set to the endless task of trying to undo her buttons. She let her dress fall to her waist and scrubbed her upper torso.

No one came to the door.

She slipped her nightdress over her shoulders and soaped and sponged her lower half, finishing with her feet. Then she breathed a sigh of relief, for no one had come.

She sat down and finished the wine. Still, no one disturbed her. The lanterns burned brightly, and she was at ease. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

Later, she tried to move, and she struck wood. Panic seized her. She was surrounded by darkness. She was locked into a small wooden space, and darkness surrounded her.

She could hear the screams.…

Stay! She had to stay!

But she could not. She could not remain in her prison and listen to the horrible screams!

She tried to scream herself, but the sound would not come. They had warned her not to make a sound, not to make a sound.…

It burst from her, the awful sound of her dream. There were hands upon her. They had found her. They had come for her, too. She scratched and fought furiously. They would kill her, without a second thought.

“Skye!”

There was light again, she realized. She blinked furiously, looking about herself. She was in his bed, beside him. She had banged against the paneling at the side of the bunk.

“It went out!” she cried. “The light went out.”

“Hush, I’m sorry.”

He held her, very tenderly. He was naked beneath the covers, she knew. His shoulders were bare and the hair upon his chest teased her cheek. He was a pirate, and she couldn’t care, she couldn’t even think about it. She lay against him, trembling and dazed. His hands soothed her, touching her hair, stroking her cheek. “It’s all right. I won’t let the light go out again. Ever.”

She kept trembling. His arms came more tightly against her and she buried her face against the strength of his broad chest.

“Don’t fight me, Skye. Lie still, lie easy. I won’t leave you and I won’t hurt you. Don’t fight me.…”

She had no thought to fight him that night. None at all. With a soft sob she curled against him. Slowly, her trembling eased. He whispered to her still. In time, her eyes closed. Then she slept, a dreamless, easy sleep.

He waited until that time. Then he uncurled the fingers that still tore into his flesh with terror. He smoothed them out, softly massaging her palms.

He gazed down upon her tearstained face, so fine in the web of her sunset hair.

He admitted that she was beautiful.

And he admitted, too, that he was playing a losing game. He had made her his prisoner.

But now, he was the one in chains. He would never be able to just release her.

Before it all ended, he would have to have her.

And leave her very, very tarnished indeed.