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F onteyne was very tall and had very long legs that caught her up with ease.

He was dressed all in black, even to the gloves he wore.

Not much of his face had been visible in the shadows of the tavern, and out on the street his features remained mostly shielded from the light glowing through the open windows of the taverns and whorehouses they passed.

Surrounded on three sides by swamp, there was always a thick, soupy fog hanging over the Bay after dusk, making the air redolent with the tang of rot and mud and the creatures that slithered through the marshes.

But Rose knew. She knew exactly what Sebastien Fonteyne looked like in daylight and in darkness.

“You could have helped me back there,” she said, her words muffled by the thick, hazy air.

Sebastien Fonteyne chuckled softly. “Now why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Old times sake? Or a favor owed perhaps?”

“A favor? You will have to remind me of your largesse?”

“Five years ago, I could have cried rape and you would likely still be looking at the world through iron bars.”

“As I recall, the only thing you were crying was my name.”

Rose ground her teeth. “A momentary lapse in judgement.”

“A four-hour long lapse?”

“Oh for pity’s sake.” She stopped and faced him. “I was young and stupid and you took advantage.”

“You could have sent me away after the first kiss. Or the second. Or?—”

“It was a foolish choice I have regretted every hour of every day since.”

“You think of me that often, do you?”

Instead of rising to the bait, she tipped her head and sighed.

“I don’t think of you at all, Captain Fonteyne, except to regret that it was you I recklessly took between my thighs that night.

Although, as I have since discovered on several occasions, your efforts hardly warranted any remorse I may have felt afterward and surely never gave reason why I would revere the memory. ”

She started walking again, cursing inwardly at her own foolishness.

Five years ago, Fonteyne had dropped anchor in Port-Louis.

He had been stopped and boarded by a British warship in open water east of Tobago and while he was not carrying any contraband at the time—or perhaps because he was not—the British captain removed three of his crew, claiming they were deserters from the Royal Navy.

In a rage, Fonteyne had demanded an audience with Ramsey St. Clare, the ranking naval officer at the time, who had offered no recompense, stating the marines were well within their right to board vessels and search for fugitives.

In an attempt to assuage his anger, for Ramsey was all too aware of Fonteyne’s reputation, he invited the privateer to a ball that was being held that same night.

He hadn’t really expected the privateer to attend, but minutes before the clock struck midnight, Fonteyne strode into the ballroom, dressed as richly as any gentleman present.

With his long black hair unfettered by any powder or wig, with the twin gold loops in each ear, and the broad chest encased in the finest black silks and velvet, he had exuded such an air of danger and savagery that women had actually swooned.

For her part, Rose had been intrigued. Not so much by his appearance, although it was certainly worth one or two skipped heartbeats, but by the knowledge she was in the same room as one of the most feared and successful privateers in all of the Caribbean.

Against her brother’s express orders, she wrested an introduction, and with the focus of a hawk, maneuvered her prey out into the gardens.

He seemed amused enough to allow her to ramble on about ships and guns, even answered some of her questions on strategy and handling of a ship in battle.

But when she mentioned it was her intention to outfit her own ship and crew, he laughed outright and drew her into his arms.

In hindsight, it was probably the most devastating kiss she’d ever had.

There was no finesse, no subtlety, no attempt at gentle seduction.

It was raw and primal, as savage as the pirate-beast himself, quickly evoking a response from every nerve, every sense, every tiny hair that prickled to attention on her body.

The kiss exposed her passions to the core and before she knew it, they were in the garden house and they were both stripping to bare flesh.

He had snuck out the next morning and sailed away from Port-Louis without so much as a wave farewell. A rose on the pillow was all he left behind. She had not thought to ever have to face him again. Not until she had seen him standing in the tavern tonight.

She heard footsteps behind her. He caught up in three long strides and pulled her into the shadowed niche of a doorway.

"What the hell do you think?—?"

"I think I need to give you a very sound piece of advice. Do as Lafitte says. Get back on board your ship and sail home to Tobago. The news about the sacking of Washington City did not go unheard tonight and by morning the rumors will be flying. Few here have any love or respect for the British, even fewer will have respect for the sister of a governor whose loyalty lies with the Crown.”

“Let go of me, damn you.”

Instead of letting go, he pushed her deeper into the corner of the doorway and pressed his big body against her. Her hands went to her waist searching for pistols that were not there, and she was pinned too tightly to draw the knife she kept tucked in the top of her boot.

“There is no challenge here, madam, as to whether you are competent to stand at the helm of a ship. There is only the question of whether you have the sense to see that sometimes a retreat is the more prudent option.”

Despite Rose’s anger at being manhandled again by this lout, half of her wits were distracted by scent of leather, sweat, and saltwater that came off his body.

Unwanted memories flooded back, and as she dared to tilt her head up, she found him staring at her so intently, she could hear her heart thudding in her ears.

For a long, breathless moment, she thought he was going to kiss her again, but she placed her hands firmly on his chest and pushed.

It was like pushing against a solid wall.

When he muttered something under his breath and started to press even closer, to crowd her more tightly into the corner, the sudden presence of cold gun barrel digging into the back of his neck stopped him.

Rose pushed again and this time was able to twist out of his grasp. “Did you think I was foolish enough to approach Lafitte’s den of thieves alone?”

Fonteyne, who had backed away and raised his hands in response to a second forceful dig from the gun barrel, was grudgingly impressed. He had not seen or heard anyone following them from the tavern, yet he now sensed a presence as large as himself, if not larger, looming behind him.

“I have never thought of you as foolish,” he admitted.

“Suggesting you think of me often?” she asked, throwing his words back at him.

“More often than I should,” he murmured too softly for her to hear.

He turned his head slightly, attempting to see who was holding the gun against his neck, but the muzzle bit deeper into tender flesh, discouraging him.

The brief movement caught enough light to reveal the high forehead, the Romanesque nose that had been broken more than once.

His mouth was a cynical curve. Unshaved stubble darkened the line of his jaw and the front of his neck

Rose tugged on her waistcoat to straighten it. “I thank you for your escort, Captain Fonteyne. Heaven knows what might have befallen me had you not been by my side.”

Her sarcasm caused his mouth to twitch again. “The night is far from over.”

He lowered his hands slightly and made a sudden whirling motion, intending to lash out at whoever was standing behind him, but the tall black shadow anticipated the move and struck out with the butt of the gun, catching Fonteyne hard on the temple.

It was a solid blow and the pirate captain was thrown off balance.

He fell heavily to his knees, where he swayed a moment, undoubtedly watching stars burst behind his eyes before he crashed down onto his side, knocked out cold.

Rose blew out a breath. She quickly searched left and right along the boardwalk to see if they had been observed, then leaned over to reclaim the pistols Fonteyne had taken from her in the tavern.

She tucked the guns back into her belt and, on a further thought, relieved Fonteyne of his pistols, as well as the three daggers she found secreted in his clothing and boot top.

And just for the insult, she took his leather purse, fat with coins.

When she straightened, she shook her head.

“Well, Duardo, so much for thinking we might be welcomed here, that we would have something to gain by working with the infamous Jean Lafitte.”

The Cygnet’s sailing master smirked. “The meeting did not go well?”

“The meeting went as well as I should have expected. The Pirate King of Barataria Bay is an arrogant, self-serving prick who believes women are only good for filling his brothels.”

Duardo growled ominously. “He said this to you? Shall I kill him?”

Rose had no doubt the former slave would do exactly that if she asked him to, but even though the thought was tempting, she shook the idea away with a curse.

“Lafitte is of no use to us dead. Kill him and we would become pariahs in every port friendly to him.”

A groan and the scrape of a foot had the two of them looking down at the sprawled figure of Sebastien Fonteyne.

Duardo leaned over and placed a hand on his neck, pinching a nerve in the captain’s neck until he stopped groaning.

He then dragged the heavy body into the shadowy niche where it would not be easily seen by anyone passing by.

As a further deterrent, he bound Fonteyne’s wrists and ankles with leather thongs and tied a gag around his mouth.

“We should probably get back to the ship,” Rose said. “The captain will not be in good humor when he wakes up.”

“I can see that he does not wake up at all,” Duardo offered as he fingered the thin bamboo tube he wore around his neck. He carried two types of darts in his arsenal; one induced a full night’s sleep; the other made the sleep permanent.

But Rose was not listening. She was looking out over the harbor, where dozens of ships lay at anchor.

A forest of bare masts stood silent in the fog-blurred darkness, their muted deck lamps glowing like faint yellow blooms through the mist. One glowed brighter than the others, her rigging lines festooned with lanterns.

The ship was easily recognizable by the black paint on her hull and the gold gilding around her gun ports.

The Pride was Lafitte’s ship.

Rose’s eyes narrowed. “How many men came ashore with us?”

“Two longboats, ten in each.”

“That should be enough,” she murmured.

“Enough for what?”

She smiled. “Enough to show the puny little man exactly what a mere woman is capable of doing.”

Duardo frowned. “Am I going to like this?”

“Probably not. How quickly can you round up our men?”

“They could not be very drunk yet. But they will not be happy getting dragged away from the whores so soon.”

Rose waved away the comment. “Find as many as you can and meet me at the longboats.”