A Most Unconventional Courtship

‘Because I meant what I said to Zagrede. I want to use the privy.’

Chance found himself firmly pushed out and the door closed again. He had some sympathy with the Count’s ambitions—this woman would make a fit consort for a pirate. He was already convinced she would make a startlingly unusual countess. And if he had anything to do with it, she was going to preside over rolling English acres and his Palladian mansion, Freshwater, not some craggy castle and miles of mountainside.

He went to stand with his ear to the door jamb, listening for returning feet, and whiled away the time remembering the sensations of caressing Alessa, of bringing her to a shuddering climax. Her first, he was certain, and it was with him. He felt a wave of tenderness that he did not recognise from any previous encounters with women. It was a need to protect and to shelter, he realised. It was love.

‘You can come back now.’

He slid into the narrow space, delighting in the way she fitted against him. She smelled deliciously of some floral scent, her hair was braided into a thick plait that had his fingers itching to untie it and muss it up again, and her gown was chastely tied high on her bosom again.

But whatever his thoughts were for passing the next few minutes, Alessa’s were resolutely practical. ‘See, the top of the privy hinges down. If you crouch on that when I come out I can open the door quite wide and it will seem to be empty in here.’

It worked. Alessa stalked out of the privy cupboard as the Count came back into the cabin, stood for a moment with one hand on the open door to allow the Count an apparently comprehensive view of the interior and shut it behind her. ‘I poured the dirty water down the privy,’ she announced. ‘You do not see fit to allow me a maid, and I most certainly do not want one of your crew in here.’

Now his hands were free and he knew Alessa was unharmed. Things were significantly more promising than they had seemed a few hours ago. There remained only the trifling problem of taking this ship, preventing pursuit and getting the women safely to land. The crew of the merchantman would have to take their chances until the navy caught up with them.

Chance settled back in his hiding place and began to plot, a part of his attention on the spirited conversation between Zagrede and Alessa, who was objecting to everything from his intention to lock her door to the menu he was offering for her dinner. He grinned: any man who wanted to marry that termagant was besotted—or in love.

He let himself be distracted by the thought for a moment, a pleasant interlude rudely interrupted by the cabin door crashing open to admit someone shouting in agitated Albanian.

‘What is it?’ Alessa demanded. ‘Is it the navy?’

‘No.’ The Count sounded grimly amused. ‘My good friend Benedict has decided to go for a stroll. I am afraid I must lock you in, my dear, and put a guard on your door. This, at least, is the one place on the Ghost where we know he is not.’ There was the sound of the door opening, then the Count must have turned back. ‘I understand that Caribbean pirates make their captives walk the plank. In the case of our mutual friend, that is beginning to sound like an interesting option.’

Chapter Twenty-One

As the lock on one door clicked shut the latch of the other opened and Alessa found herself held hard against Chance’s chest. It felt wonderful. ‘I could stand like this for hours,’ she confessed, wrapping her arms around as much of him as she could reach and burrowing harder against the solid wall of muscle. ‘You make me feel so safe,’ she whispered.

A weight on the top of her head must be his cheek resting against her hair. Alessa closed her eyes. He was so tender with her—surely it meant he felt more than sexual desire?

‘That is flattering, and I agree this is a deeply pleasurable way to spend the afternoon, but we have a ship to

capture and holding you like this makes it very hard to think.’ Chance was whispering too, as aware of the guard outside as she. He took her hand and guided her towards the head of the bed, as far away from the door as possible.

‘We,’ she murmured. ‘You will let me help?’

‘Do I have much choice? I could emulate my dear friend Voltar—I really am going to have to knock his teeth in if he calls me Benedict one more time—and tie you to the bed, but I wouldn’t want to live with the consequences afterwards.’

‘We don’t have any weapons,’ Alessa lamented. ‘He took my pistol.’

‘Mine, too, and my sword. I should have taken a leaf out of your book and carried a knife in my boot.’

There was a moment of dawning comprehension as they stared at each other, then Alessa threw herself on her bags, which had been piled in one corner, and began to search. ‘Someone has been through them already,’ she hissed. Feet thudded past as men ran along the passageway, shouting at each other.

Chance joined her. ‘Probably searching for bodkins and embroidery scissors as befits a young lady of breeding, not boots full of knives. Here.’ He dragged out the worn pair of soft leather boots and handed them to her. There, snug in its sheath, was the thin, wicked blade that she had last used to tickle Georgi’s fat ribs. How long ago that seemed now.

Alessa gripped it for a moment, then handed it to Chance. With only one weapon, he was best equipped to use it. ‘Now what?’

‘We wait until they have turned the ship upside down and convinced themselves I have gone over the side. Then they will have to search the Plymouth Sound, thinking I must have swum over and be preparing to free the crew. With any luck they will take some of the men off here to do it. Zagrede has already had to split his men—some to guard the crew, some to man the other ship and the rest to sail this and guard his hostages. If he takes more off, then we have some hopes of taking this one.’

‘But how can we sail it? And he will give chase.’

‘I can sail it if I have, say, five crew, but I can’t do that and man the guns for a running fight. So we will just have to make certain he cannot follow.’

Where he thought he was going to find five willing crew members, besides herself, and how he expected to sail something of this size, Alessa had no idea. She could sail a small skiff—so could Chance, she recalled from that day in the bay. He was an intelligent, observant man, so he would have watched the way the ships he had sailed on were handled, but that was a far cry handling this craft. In naval terms she supposed it would be considered a cutter.

‘We are coming about,’ he whispered. The sounds of activity below deck were gone, everything was happening above their heads. ‘They have given up here. Damn it, I wish I could see…Ah!’ He was kneeling on the bed, craning to look through the porthole. ‘I can see the Plymouth and I think—yes, they are lowering a boat.’ Alessa stood, heart in her mouth. Would enough go? ‘Twelve. Good. Now we act.’ He caught her to him roughly, bent his head and took her mouth with a possessive arrogance that made her blood sing. ‘Stay behind me, do as I tell you.’ He tipped up her chin. ‘Don’t get hurt, you are very precious to me.’

Chance jerked his head towards the door, then went to stand behind it, the knife reversed in his fist in the same way she had used on Big Petro.