Never Trust a Pirate (Scandal at the House of Russell 2)

He still wasn’t convinced. “He might have been lying to you.”

“Why? He told me he was going to kill me—what difference would it make?” she argued.

“I have no idea. That’s Dorrit the Cleaner, one of our most notorious denizens. He probably never told the truth in his short, misbegotten life.”

Maddy looked down at the corpse and shuddered. “None of it makes any sense. Who would want to kill me?”

“Gwendolyn Haviland, for one, though that would be quite a gesture of friendship for Brown to make, considering they only met.”

Her brow furrowed. Her color seemed to be returning, though she still seemed a little unsteady. “Why in God’s name would your fiancée want me dead?”

He didn’t bother informing her he’d sent a note to inform Gwendolyn that she was no longer his affianced. Unspeakably rude, of course, which would make her view her broken engagement with relief. “When you figure it out, let me know.”

Maddy was strongly considering throwing up. She had a stomach of cast iron, Nanny Gruen had always told her, and every time her sisters contracted some kind of stomach ailment she’d always proved resistant, but there was a knife sticking out of the man’s eye, and apparently there was another corpse nearby, and Luca looked completely undisturbed.

It was no surprise she was shaken, but Maddy wasn’t about to let that defeat her. “Did you kill the other man as well?”

“I did,” Luca said, apparently unmoved by that fact. “I could have asked him to go away in my nicest voice but he had a knife as well, and I prefer being alive. What’s your real name?”

Damn the man! Why was he doing this to her, now, while she was clearly vulnerable? There weren’t many times when she needed comfort, but right now she wanted nothing more than Nanny Gruen’s arms around her, a warm blanket, and a hot cup of tea.

She’d get none of those things from the captain, and his arms weren’t made for comfort. She really couldn’t stay here any longer—the masquerade was over, whether she was willing to admit it or not.

She should tell him who she was, she thought, trying to keep from swaying slightly as blood began to pool beneath the dead man at her feet. If Mr. Brown had really sent him to kill her it was more likely that he was the villain, not Luca. He’d saved her life. So why couldn’t she melt in gratitude the way she foolishly wanted to? Why couldn’t he put his arms around her, damn it?

But how could she say, “I’m Madeleine Russell,” and not expect that cool, disdainful rage to turn on her? He killed without hesitation, and he was watching her out of unreadable eyes. No, the man wasn’t going to get anything from her. She was going to run, as soon as she could coerce her shaky muscles into obeying.

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“My name is Mary Greaves,” she said stubbornly. He had moved closer, but there was a clear enough path to dart around him once she got her strength back.

For a moment he said nothing. “So be it,” he said flatly. “I’m afraid you can’t stay here. I can’t keep fighting off marauders, and whoever sent these men won’t stop. He’ll send more, or come himself.”

She lifted her chin, determined not to show her fear. In truth, she’d come to the same conclusion. “How do you know that?”

“That’s what I would do.”

“Then I’ll leave,” she said promptly.

“And where will you go, Mary Greaves?” The light mockery in his voice when he said her false name was maddening. She’d go to her grave before she told him the truth, damn it. “Back to Lancashire?” He even mocked her on-again, off-again accent.

“Of course,” she said, not even bothering to sound as if she were anyone but Miss Madeleine Russell, toast of the 1868 season. Last year was so long ago.

“You aren’t going anywhere except with me. And don’t even try to run. It’ll be a waste of time and it’s growing dark.” He turned his back to look up at the night sky.

Arrogant bastard, she thought fiercely, the anger bringing strength back to her limbs. He was so wrong about that! “I don’t think so,” she said sweetly, and before she could think twice she darted to the side, leapt over the corpse with every intention of running down the pathway.

And she would have, if he hadn’t suddenly whirled around and caught her midair, so that she landed hard against his body with an “oomph,” his hands closing around her arms, and she was trapped once more.

Her feet were off the ground, and he was holding her against him, his dark, gypsy eyes level with hers. “You really are too easy. What’s your name?”

“Mary Greaves,” she said between clenched teeth. “Put me down.”

To her surprise he did, slowly, letting her body slide down his, and some weak, inner creature wanted to moan. She glared at him—right now impassivity was beyond her.

He didn’t release his hold on her. “Let go of me,” she said. “I think I’ve had quite enough of being manhandled for one day.”

“At least I have no plans to kill you. I think the smartest thing I can do right now is to take you away from here until the police find out what’s going on.”