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

He’d hit her! That goddamned, bloody, no good whoreson of a bastard had hit her, knocking her unconscious so he could carry her off. For a moment she bordered on apoplectic rage. It was one thing when a hired killer slapped you—that was at least expected. But when the man who rescued you socked you then enough was enough. She was going to kill him.

On top of that colossal insult he’d brought her onboard a ship, refusing to release her despite her pleas, and the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath them was still sending shards of terror through her.

She only wished she were seasick, so she could spew all over Luca when he came back. Unfortunately her stomach wasn’t responding to the power of suggestion; even conjuring up the vision of the dead man with the knife in his eye couldn’t make her stomach lurch.

All right, she was trapped, at least for the moment, and she seemed to have survived her first few hours on the ocean. If she wasn’t going to die then her next step was to ensure Luca wished he would. She struggled once more with the ropes around her wrists, but even using her teeth to try to untie them hadn’t done any good, and they were beginning to bleed. She sank back, panting. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

He expected her to thank him for saving her life? He was going to have a good long wait for that impossibility. He wanted her to tell him who she was? She’d be burned at the stake before she gave in. Revenge was a dish best served cold. It didn’t matter if it seemed as if Luca hadn’t had anything to do with her father’s death, he’d done enough to her to earn her lifetime enmity. She’d find a way to repay him for hitting her and then dragging her on board this ship. She’d make him rue the day he met her.

Though in truth he probably already did, she thought, sinking back on the bunk, trying to relax her tense muscles. But if there were any room for doubt she’d take care of it. Luca was going to be very sorry indeed.

Luca was bloody tired. They were five hours out from Devonport and Plymouth, there’d been no thumping from the cabin, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back down there. It had nothing to do with the fact that she’d bitten the cook’s assistant when he’d tried to feed her. Nothing to do with the fact that his entire crew was going to think it extremely odd that he had a woman locked in his cabin and he wasn’t doing a thing about it.

In fact, he wasn’t sure what was stopping him at that point. They’d been out at sea long enough that she would have had to make peace with the fact. In fact, if she were going to be prey to seasickness it would have started by now, and she might be lying in his bunk, covered in her own vomit.

Which gave him a good excuse to go down there, and a good way to tone down his hunger for her. Nothing like a little seasickness to dowse the flame, he thought cynically. If she tried to bite him he could always gag her again, but he’d taken the rag off her face for a reason. If she did cast up her accounts she would choke to death with a gag covering her mouth.

So he’d deal with her fury and her teeth. In fact, the idea of her biting him was unexpectedly arousing, though he didn’t think the cook’s lad had thought so. He’d reported she was a rabid dog who ought to be tossed overboard, and Billy had seconded the notion, just to cause trouble.

Luca was tired, and he wanted to sleep. Which was ridiculous—he could go days without sleep, and had, often enough, when the weather was bad. If he was really tired he could go bunk in Billy’s cabin while his old friend manned the helm, and to hell with what the sailors said. No, he had only one reason to go back to his cabin. Because he wanted to see her.

The sun was just beginning to appear on the distant horizon, the bright, pinky-red glow verifying Billy’s concerns. Red skies at night, sailor’s delight, red skies at morning, sailors take warning. The sky was blood-red in the east, and a storm was brewing. If Maddy wasn’t frightened of sailing before, this would probably put the fear of God into her.

He’d never made an unwanted sound in the last twenty years of his life, and the key turned silently in the lock as he let himself into his cabin. The predawn light was filling the place with a rosy glow that would have been pretty if he hadn’t known what was coming. She lay curled up on the berth, her bound hands in front of her, her long hair loose and tangled. She was sound asleep, and she looked like a slightly battered angel, with her bruised face and her thick eyelashes against her creamy skin. She wasn’t an exquisitely pale Eng

lish beauty like Gwendolyn—there was fire in her, warmth to her skin, flames in her heart. She’d probably stab him the first chance she got. His kind of woman.

He walked to the edge of the bed. “Move over,” he said.

She jerked, startled awake, and opened her eyes, staring up at him dazedly. And then her gaze sharpened.

It was all the warning he needed. Before she could move he was on the bunk, wrapping his arms around her body, rolling onto his side so that she lay between him and the wall. It took surprisingly little effort to keep her contained—her struggles weakened and then stopped, and she rested her head against his shoulder, breathing heavily.

He didn’t move, didn’t loosen the encompassing circle of his arms, not trusting her, but as the minutes passed and her breathing deepened once more, her body flowing against his, he realized she had actually fallen back asleep. He started to release her, slowly in case she’d managed to trick him, but instead she made a sound that was a cross between a moan and a purr, snuggling closer.

In the shadowy light he rolled his eyes at the entire ridiculousness of the situation. He was her worst enemy, or so she believed, and she was curling up against him like a kitten. He wondered what would happen if he licked her.

Christ! He was already hard as a rock, just lying up close against her; he didn’t have to make it worse by envisioning all the things he’d like to do with his tongue. He let his chin rest on top of her head. It was surprisingly comfortable. He never slept with a woman in his arms—if they shared a bed for a night they kept to their own sides when they weren’t busy. For some reason Maddy just seemed to fit against him, around him, perfectly.

He closed his eyes. He’d never been a fool, and he recognized the signs. So had everyone else, apparently. He wasn’t going to dump the lying, treacherous, devious Madeleine Rose Russell off at the nearest port. He wasn’t going to let go of her ever again.

The problem would be to convince her, but at least when she was mostly asleep she trusted him. That was a good enough beginning. He slid his hand up her back, urging her closer, and she came to him, sweet and warm, as the ship rocked beneath them, and he fell asleep in the arms of the ocean and the woman he loved.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MADDY HADN’T FELT THIS safe in years. Maybe ever. She was warm, protected, loved, and she refused to surface from the drugging depths of sleep to examine why. It felt too good to examine—all she wanted to do was experience it. She couldn’t see anything—it was pitch black wherever she was, and she knew she wasn’t alone. She took a deep breath and recognized the intoxicating scent of his skin, the feel of his arms around her, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

She waited for the familiar rage to fill her, empower her. She waited for anger, so that she could take him unaware, shove him off the bed, bring her knees up first. All those thoughts flitted through her brain like the shreds of clouds disappearing in the wake of a storm. She was so tired of being angry, and if felt so good lying in his arms. Even the gentle, almost imperceptible rock of the ocean was a benison, comforting her like a mother’s arms.

She hadn’t mourned her father—she’d responded with fury, first at him, then at whoever had destroyed him. Her anger had extended to everyone around her, until she was consumed by it, and there was nothing left but a hard, cold cinder of regret. She didn’t want to be that cinder. She wanted to be a woman, whole and lush and alive, not lost in a cyclone of anger and death. She wanted to be a woman in the arms of a man, a man who held her gently and kissed her hard. She wanted to be in Luca’s arms, right where she was, and it was too late for her. She had made her choices, and now she would pay for them. Once he knew who she was he would hate her.

Her face felt wet, and she realized to her horror that she was crying. Tears were for private moments, when no one could see or hear her, not even her sisters. She had to stop this, immediately. She couldn’t show weakness, she couldn’t feel weakness, tenderness, longing. She tried to move her hands, to wipe the tears away, but her wrists were still bound and trapped between their bodies, and the knowledge only made her cry more. In the darkness she knew that Luca was wearing only a light linen shirt, and if she didn’t stop the tears would soak through. She could bite him, tell him she drooled in her sleep, and she tried one more time to summon up her constant companion, vengeful fury. There was none to spare.

Very well. He might not notice the dampness—after all, how much water did tears make? As long as she was very silent it would pass soon enough. It always did. These bouts of tears didn’t last long, and when it was done perhaps she might reclaim her anger. This was just a way to release the treacherous, weakening sorrow so that she might fight again.

She couldn’t be angry with him for her father’s sake, but hitting her, kidnapping her, forcing her on board a ship was more than enough reason on her own.

But then, if he hadn’t, there would be no saving her life, kissing her like a fallen angel, holding her while she slept. How could she hate him?