A Most Unconventional Courtship

‘Three…Chance!’ Zagrede moved like a snake. As the pistol jerked in her hand with the shock he was on her, twisting her wrist, sending the weapon flying across the deck.

‘My apologies, my dear, but if you will play rough games—’ His fist caught her neatly on the point of her chin, the world spun.

Stars, you really do see stars…Chance…The deck came up and met her and everything went dark.

Chance doubled his fist and lunged for Zagrede, only to find himself grappled hard from behind. He bucked, stamped and kicked, but three men were too much, even in his present killing rage.

‘You bastard…’

‘My dear Benedict, if she had shot me, my men would have killed her. I hit her for her own protection. And speaking of protection—we have the ship, so I believe your parole has expired.’ The Count spoke in rapid Albanian and his captors began to drag Chance towards the rail. He fought desperately. How far were they from land? Could he hope to swim, or would they put a bullet in him before he hit the water? The merchant ship’s crew took a step forward and a single gunshot jerked them to a halt. As he was dragged to the rail Chance twisted his head and bit one of the hands holding his shoulder hard, to the bone.

The blow on the back of his head came out of nowhere; he was unconscious before he hit the deck.

Alessa came to herself slowly and she lay, eyes closed, listening, waiting while she regained her senses. Her head and neck ached, but it was not disabling. Nothing else hurt. She was lying on something soft, which was swaying. No, the cabin was swaying, she was still on board.

Cautiously she opened her eyes on to a completely unfamiliar, luxurious cabin. She was not on the same ship, she realised. By the way it moved, this was smaller. She was on the pirate vessel.

It was then, as she attempted to sit up on the bed, that she realised her hands were tied. Someone had used silk scarves or sashes, for the fabric was soft against her skin until she tried to jerk at it. Each wrist was secured separately and the bonds went to the posts at the head. There was enough length to them to let her sit up, to move her arms up and down, but get off the bed she could not.

She could see the Count’s hand in this. Tied up and a prisoner, certainly, but secured with silk, on a comfortable bed, and able to move and make herself comfortable. This care was sinister: what was he keeping her for? She would have been happier to find herself in the bilges.

The door opening brought her as upright as she could manage. He was not going to see her trembling, whatever he had come for. And whatever it was, there was one question she must have an answer for first, and before anything.

Voltar Zagrede lounged into the cabin, his dark eyes amused, the wide sensual mouth twisted into an appreciative smile. ‘My dear Alessa, how very lovely you look like that.’ He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and swerved elegantly as she kicked out at him. ‘I much regret having to hit you, but really, my dear, what do you think would have happened to you if you had shot me? I would not have been able to forgive myself.’

‘It would have been worth it,’ she snapped. ‘And you would not have to worry about it: I would have killed you.’

His dark brows shot up as he whistled in admiration. ‘So fierce! I was right about you. Magnificent.’

‘Oh never mind about that. What have you done with Chance? What was he doing here?’

‘My good friend Benedict has been with us from the start of this chase. We followed you out of harbour, changed our appearance a trifle, took on more men and we have been on your track ever since.’

‘But how did Chance come to be with you? He cannot have known this is a pirate ship, that you are a pirate.’

‘Of course he knew what I am. He is not what he seems, any more than I am.’ The Count took advantage of her concentration on Chance to approach the bed again. His hand slid down her hair to her shoulder. ‘You are too trusting, Alessa; that must change if you are to marry me—my wife must be ever on the alert.’

‘Marry you?’ She stared at him, but there seemed to be no sign of lunacy. The Count smiled calmly back at her with the same quizzical charm she had come to expect from him. ‘This is some sort of joke, I assume? I have to tell you, my sense of humour is not what it used to be.’

‘No joke.’ He wandered down the bed and began to stroke her ankle. Alessa kicked at him and he withdrew his hand, smiling. ‘I have your aunt and your cousin—they will be hostages against the actions of Lord Blackstone and Sir Thomas in suppressing piracy. Or at least, attempting to do so. Everyone tries, no one succeeds, but it is tiresome while it lasts.’

‘I am of no value as a hostage,’ she pointed out.

‘No. Your value to me lies elsewhere.’

‘As a wife?’ she queried sarcastically. ‘I have heard rape given many euphemisms, but that is a new one.’

‘Now you insult me.’ Alessa stared into the impudent black eyes. He is insulted? ‘I need a wife, I need sons. You are well bred, you are courageous, you are beautiful and you are a virgin. I desire you.’

‘Well, I do not desire you,’ Alessa said firmly.

‘But you will, my sweet, you will.’ The Count stood watching her and the mocking light in his eyes became hot. She swallowed, determined not to show any fear. ‘You are a valuable exercise in self-discipline for me, Alessa. Now, rest. I am busy just at the moment, but I will return in an hour or so. There is water there, just within reach of your right hand. Sleep, and dream of fine castles, rich silks, a passionate husband and tall sons.’

Alessa tried to relax as he suggested, but it was a ridiculous ambition to sleep when her mind was in such turmoil. What the Count had said about the fate of her relatives and his plans for herself were the least of her worries. She believed him, rogue that he was; none of them was going to be physically mistreated, although she doubted her aunt would credit it.

No, what was gnawing at her was what the Count had said about Chance. Of course he knew what I am. He is not what he seems…What did he mean? Not an honest man? Not an earl? Could Chance be a confidence trickster, a fraud? Why not? Where better to prey on rich, unsuspecting people than a remote island in the Mediterranean? None of them knew the Earl of Blakeney by sight—he could be a short, fat redhead with gout for all they knew, and probably was, comfortably at home in London, unaware that his name was being used by a sharp, loose among the trusting marks, far from home.

She shut her eyes, trying to find some repose, but the memories chased themselves across the darkness. I cannot believe it of him, yet presumably gullible people were saying that every day as they discovered the skilled deceptions that were practised upon them. I cannot afford to be gullible, I cannot afford to let love conquer commonsense. Frances and my aunt and the children all depend upon me now.