Seduced by the Scoundrel (Danger and Desire 2)

‘Sorry, Cap’n, I was only—’

‘Don’t you go insulting the captain.’ The fisherman turned, furious. ‘My Johnnie was serving with him when he was killed and he wouldn’t have a word said against him. He’d come home and he’d say—’

‘Yes, well, spare my blushes, Yestin. You get out fishing now. We’ll look out for your lights, six bells on the first watch.’

The man grunted. ‘You navy men and your bells. It’ll be eleven by the clock on Garrison Gate.’ He put down his mug, gave Averil another long stare, then marched down the beach and pushed off his boat. ‘You kill the lot of them,’ he called back as the wind caught the sail. ‘And I’ll have lobsters for all of you.’

‘Good news,’ Luc remarked. ‘After dinner, Tom Patch, I want all the dirks and the cutlasses sharpened. Harris, double check the boat. Timmins, come with me and we’ll sort out the ammunition and the handguns. The rest of you can take it easy—I need everyone alert and ready to go at two bells on the first watch.’

‘Two hours to do that distance?’ one of the men queried.

‘I want you in good condition when we get there,’ Luc said with a grin. ‘You’ll have some fast rowing and then some brisk fighting—no need to be blown before you start.’

They ate, all of them more cheerful than Averil had seen before. Even Dawkins found discussing the best way to cut a French throat more interesting that ogling her. When they had finished the men with tasks to do went off, leaving nine of them fidgeting around the fire.

‘Oh, get away and look for wreckage,’ Potts said, exasperated. ‘I’m trying to clear up and cook supper and you lot are under my feet. Unless you want to help?’

That sent them off down to the shoreline. Averil watched who went where and then followed, taking the opposite end to Dawkins and Tubbs. There were splintered timbers and cask staves sticking up between ridges of rock, some torn canvas, tangled ropes. Averil picked her way along the shore, gripped by a horrid fascination, half dreading seeing something that she recognised, half as infected by the same treasure-hunting enthusiasm as the men.

Time passed; the sand was warm under her bare feet and the foam at the water’s edge tickled her toes. If the cause was not so grim, this would be a delightful way to spend a spring day.

‘You found anything?’ It was Tubbs.

She straightened up, wary. ‘Only shells and rubbish.’

‘Aye,’ he agreed, sounding almost amiable. ‘You found anything, ‘Arry?’

‘Nah.’ The big man was balanced precariously on a low ridge of rock sticking up a couple of feet from the sand. ‘I’m for a kip in the tent.’ He turned, awkward on the sharp edge. ‘Wot’s that?’

Tubbs darted forwards and picked something up. Averil saw it as it lay in his calloused palm, a dark oval, smooth and polished, a hinge on one side. ‘I know what that is. Give it to me, please—’

‘I saw it first,’ Dawkins said and made a grab at Tubbs. It all happened so fast Averil did not even have time to step back. Dawkins slipped, fell, crashed into Tubbs, the box shot up in the air, she caught it and was drenched as the two men landed in the shallows. There was a bellow of agony and she saw that Dawkins was not getting up. The water around him was red.

She stuffed the box into the waistcoat pocket and splashed to his side. He was lying awkwardly, cursing with pain; his leg, where all the blood was flowing from, was jammed into a crack in the rock.

‘Tubbs, get hold of him, try to get him straight while I hold his ankle!’

The man went to his mate’s shoulders and started to heave as Averil got her hands around the trapped foot. ‘It’ll be ‘opeless,’ Tubbs remarked gloomily as Dawkins swore, a torrent of obscenity. ‘Potts! Get a knife, we’ll ‘ave to cut it off.’

‘Nonsense,’ Averil said, hoping it was, as the cook ran down to her side. ‘Look, if enough of you can lift him and stop his weight dragging on the leg, I might be able to work it free.’

It involved considerable splashing, cursing and heaving and more blood than Averil ever wanted to see again, but minutes later Dawkins was lying on the beach like a porpoise out of water, moaning and groaning while Averil sent men running for clean water and something to tear up for a bandage.

‘I don’t think it is broken,’ she said when she had got the sand and broken shell washed out of the deep cuts and grazes. The others hauled Dawkins up and he balanced on one foot in front of her, white to the lips. He tried to put his foot down and swayed, gasping with pain. Averil grabbed hold, too, before he crashed down again. ‘But I think you’ve damaged the tendons. You won’t be able to walk for a—’

‘What the hell?’ It was Luc, at the run. ‘What have you done? Dawkins, you bastard, get your hands off her!’

Chapter Eight

Averil glanced down at herself and realised what Luc was seeing—Dawkins with his hands on her shoulders, her shirt red with blood. ‘It is all right, he has hurt his foot. It is his blood,’ she said urgently as Luc reached them, murder in his eyes.

r /> ‘His?’ He stared at her, then turned and hit Dawkins square on the jaw, felling the big man.

‘I never touched ‘er!’ the sailor protested, flat on his back on the sand, one meaty hand clamped to his face.

‘Why did you hit him?’ Averil protested. ‘He’s the one who is injured. It was an accident.’

Luc pulled her towards him, none too gently, and held her by her shoulders as he scanned her face as though looking for the truth. ‘For scaring the living daylights out of me,’ he said too softly for the men to hear, then raised his voice. ‘The damn fool has probably hurt himself too badly to be any use tonight.’