by Shana Galen
tight. The neck was a vee and the waist so high it
ended just under her breasts. She had no stays or other
undergarments with her, and her breasts swelled out of
the dress sensuously. She had dug through the trunk
in search of a tucking piece and found none. But she
had found a pair of simple white slippers that fit and
slipped them on. She had been barefoot before, as
boots would have slowed her swimming.
Now this last glance in the mirror convinced her
she ought to wear Cutlass’s clothing after all. One look
at her and he would think she meant to seduce him.
Even her hair did not help matters. It dried curly and
wanton, falling in tousled waves over her shoulders.
Her cheeks were red from embarrassment and the
earlier exertions of the night. Indeed, she looked like
a wench newly climbed from bed.
She was reaching for one of Cutlass’s shirts when
the cabin door opened and he stepped inside. She
whirled to face him, his shirt in front of her chest like
a barrier.
He raised a brow. “Having difficulty deciding on
your wardrobe?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. If you’d wait
outside, I’ll be finished in a moment.”
He gave her a long perusal then reached over and
plucked his shirt from her hands. “I don’t think so.
You look quite presentable as it is.” He reached for
the goblet of wine he’d left on the desk. “More than
presentable, considering your evening activities. Mr.
Williams enlightened me, you see. Don’t frown so.
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He wanted only to secure your release. He worries for
your father’s health.”
Raeven’s stomach roiled as she thought of her poor
father waking in the morning and finding her missing
again. He would indeed worry, possibly becoming so
anxious his health was further compromised. Oh, why
hadn’t she considered the possibility of capture before?
Because, she told herself, you think you’re inde-
structible. But you’re not.
“I assured him both you and he would be sent back
to the Regal before the night’s end.”
“That’s still several hours away,” she pointed out.
He grinned and lifted the goblet to his lips. “Did
you poison this while I was away, or is it safe to drink
the contents?” He took a long swallow, and she fisted
her hands. She wished she’d thought to bring some
poison. He would be writhing in agony right now,
and she would be the one smiling smugly.
He set the goblet back on the desk and filled it
again. He filled hers as well, crossed to the berth, sat,
and began removing his boots.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He dropped one on the floor beside the berth.
“What does it look like?”
Undressing. But she didn’t want to say it. “Why are
you—er, doing that?”
He glanced up at her. “Come now, Raeven. You
can stop pretending this”—he gestured to the bed—
“isn’t what you came for.”
“Is that what you think? Well, you’re wrong. I
came for my sword, and now that I have it, I’d like
to leave.”
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“Fine. But this may be your last opportunity. We’re
leaving Gibraltar very soon.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, watched as his
eyes followed the action, then realizing her actions
pushed her breasts farther out of the dress, lowered her
arms quickly. “And good riddance to you. I’d rather
kill you than kiss you.”
He nodded, dropped the other boot on the floor,
and putting his hands behind his head, lay flat on the
berth. Raeven couldn’t help but notice it was large
enough to comfortably fit two. “If that’s what you
want, go ahead.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
He indicated the open collar and the bronze skin of
his neck. “Go ahead. Slit my throat.”
He’d called her bluff, but she wasn’t about to
admit it. Besides, she was annoyed enough with his
arrogance to consider killing him. “And if I slit your
throat, then what happens?”
“I’m dead, and you’ve avenged your murdered lover.”
“He was my fiancé.” And thinking about him had
her reaching for her sword. The hilt felt comfortable
in her hands, like an old glove.
“Even worse for me. Go ahead then. Kill me.”
She clutched the hilt tighter, thought about
plunging the blade through his heart. She could do
it, she thought, even as she lifted the sword. She
could do it for Timothy. She took a step forward
and paused. “And what happens after I kill you?
Your men…”
“You didn’t worry about your welfare in Brest or
the last time you were in this cabin. Why worry now?”
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He was right. She didn’t care what happened to
her. She’d vowed to kill Timothy’s murderer, no
matter what it took. “But what about Percy—Mr.
Williams? He hasn’t done anything.”
“Fair enough.” Cutlass stood, walked to the door,
opened it, and signaled to the guard. “Jean, no matter
what happens to me tonight, the prisoner, Mr.
Williams, is to be freed. Tell Mr. Maine.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Cutlass closed the door again and walked back to
the bed. She found herself admiring his easy gait,
the way he managed to swagger even without boots.
“How do I know he’ll do as you say? How do I know
your men won’t turn on us once you’re gone?”
He gave her a hard look. “Because my men follow
my orders whether I’m dead or alive. You can be
assured no harm will come to your precious Mr.
Williams.” He lay back on the bed, adjusted the collar
of his shirt so his throat was bare once again, and
motioned to her. “Let’s get this over with.” He tucked
his hands behind his head, moving a little stiffly. At
first she thought his hesitation was out of fear; then
she remembered he’d been shot, and his shoulder most
certainly still pained him. And yet, she never would
have known he was in any discomfort at all from his
actions. He really didn’t seem to worry she’d kill him.
But she’d show him…
Her heart was thudding in her chest now, and her
palms were sweaty. She hefted the sword, and it felt
suddenly heavy and slippery against her damp skin.
But she held on and walked to the berth. He squinted
up at her. “Not with the sword.”
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She’
d been staring at that swath of bronze skin, at
the corded muscles of his neck. “What?”
“If you’re going to do this, it’s personal. Make it
personal. Use your dagger.”
She had the dagger strapped to her thigh under
the thin dress, and she knew it would feel even more
familiar in her hand than the sword. She looked at his
neck, could almost see the pulse beating steadily there.
With one flick of her dagger, she could end that pulse,
that life, just as Cutlass had ended Timothy’s life.
She reached for the dagger, aware he watched as she
lifted her skirt and unsheathed the blade.
“If I’m going to die, at least my last view was
pleasant,” he drawled.
If he was trying to enrage her, it worked. She
clutched the dagger tightly and looked down at him.
He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch as she raised it. She
could see her hand waver, see the dagger shake, but
she gripped it tighter. She could throw it now. He’d
seen her skill and aim. He must have known he was
in danger, and yet he didn’t move. Didn’t try to
block her.
She moved closer, rested one knee on the edge of
the berth. Through the thin material of the gown,
she could feel his heat, feel his comfortable warmth
against her cold leg. Gaze never leaving his, she bent
and pressed the dagger to his throat. She thought
perhaps his pulse jumped, but she couldn’t be certain.
She waited, dagger ready, hand still shaking but steady
enough to do what needed to be done.
And then he turned his head slightly—toward the
dagger. He didn’t dislodge it, didn’t move his hands
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from where they rested behind his neck, but he turned
into the blade. Raeven frowned, certain the sharp tip
must cause him some discomfort. He glanced up at
her, and she could feel his breath on her wrist. Very
slowly, he pressed his lips against her skin.
She gasped, shocked at the feel of his mouth on her
and even more at his audacity. She was about to kill
him, and he was kissing her.
“What are you doing?”
He nuzzled her wrist with his cheek, and she could
feel the prickly stubble on her sensitive skin. A shiver ran
up her back, but she battened it down before it could
spread farther. She gripped the dagger tighter, tried to
muster the effort to dig the blade into his flesh, but it
was difficult to think when his warm breath tickled her.
It was difficult to think when he touched the tip of his
tongue to her pulse—once, twice, no, three times.
“Stop it,” she whispered.
“Make me.” He lifted his head slightly and kissed
the skin above her wrist. She inadvertently pulled the
dagger back slightly, not wanting to stab him.
Not wanting to stab him? What was she doing? She
was supposed to stab him!
“If you’re trying to save yourself, it won’t work.”
“I’m not trying to save myself,” he murmured, soft
lips pressing against her skin, warm breath tickling her.
“I haven’t moved my hands. Go ahead and do it. But
I deserve one last moment of pleasure.”
He slipped back, moved his lips away from her
wrist, and she let out a pent-up breath, only to draw
it in again as he drew her last and smallest finger into
his mouth.
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“Stop.” But her words were a whisper. The feel of
that moist mouth on her finger, the gentle suction as
he drew it inside, the rasp of his soft tongue on her
skin… she couldn’t think. She didn’t want to think.
Didn’t want him to stop.
He released her finger, looked up at her, his eyes
smoky and full of sultry promises. “Kiss me, ma belle.”
“You’re trying to trick me.” Her voice wavered, shook.
He feigned innocence. At least she thought it was
feigned. “Have I moved my hands? Have I dislodged
your weapon? Kiss me or kill me. It’s your decision.”
She was unable to move. His body seemed to burn
her wherever they touched. She was too warm. She
could feel a trickle of perspiration roll down her back,
could feel another meander between her breasts.
“Or perhaps kiss me then kill me,” he suggested.
“There’s time for both.”
And still she didn’t move, didn’t dare.
“You needn’t even move the blade to do it,” he
whispered. “Perhaps I’ll die with your lips on mine.”
She almost rolled her eyes. “I told you flowery
words don’t affect me.”
“Then what does?” He raised his brows. “You can
tell me your secrets. I’ll take them to the grave.”
“Your—” She paused and swallowed. Her lips felt
dry. They tingled where she could imagine his mouth
on hers. “Your breath on my skin,” she whispered.
“Your tongue when it touched me…”
He nodded. “Let me touch you more.” But he
didn’t move his hands, and she knew how he wanted
to touch her. She need only lean forward. Indeed, her
mouth was already so close to his. On an oath, she
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bent and touched her lips to his. She didn’t move the
dagger, kept it pressed firmly against his throat. And he
didn’t protest, but his tongue darted out and dragged
a path of fire across her lips.
She moaned, feeling heat pulse throughout her
entire body. The room swayed, and it was more than
the gentle lap of the water. It was her mind and her
body waging war.
Her body won for the moment, and she crushed
her lips to his, taking him completely, mating her
tongue with his. He allowed her to control the kiss,
to explore his mouth, his tongue, his lips. And then
he gently gave all the pleasure back to her, slanting
his mouth over hers, showing her how a flick here or
the press of his lips there could make her shiver, could
make her whole body feel as though it would explode.
At some point, she was aware she’d released the
dagger. Her hand was fisted in his hair, pulling his
mouth harder against her own, demanding he give
her more, take more. And he was responding. One
of his hands snaked behind her, wrapped around her
back, and drew her body flush against his. Again she
was amazed at how warm he was, how solid. And the
smell of him—fresh and inviting, like a sandy beach in
the morning. She wanted to burrow into his shoulder,
his chest, inhale deeply. She wanted to taste his skin to
see if he tasted as good as he smelled.
His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, and
she arched it to give him better access, glanced up
at the mahogany pa
neling above the berth. And,
unbidden, the thought came to her: Timothy’s cabin
had been fashioned of oak.
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She stiffened suddenly and drew away. Cutlass’s
hands tightened on her for a moment, but only a
moment. She looked at his face—his too-handsome
pirate face—and could see his resignation.
He released her. “You’re thinking of him.”
She pushed away so she was once again kneeling
on the side of the berth. “This is wrong. I don’t
know what I was thinking.” She began to rise, but he
grasped her hand.
“Perhaps you need to stop thinking so much.”
He looked about the cabin. “Look where all your
thinking and planning has landed you.”
“In the arms of the enemy.”
He raised a brow. “How very dramatic, ma belle.”
He rose on his elbows. “What if I told you I’m not
the enemy? What if I suggested we could be friends?
We’re too alike not to be friends.”
“We’ll never be friends.” She spotted the fallen
dagger below the pillow near his head and reached for
it. But he was too fast and had it in his hands while she
groped the sheets. He sat, eyed the dagger, and then
her. “So we’ll be lovers, but not friends.”
“We’ll be nothing, pirate. I was wrong to allow you
to kiss me, wr—”
He laughed. “Allow? Mademoiselle, you kissed
me.” He touched the tip of her chin with the point
of the dagger. “And I think you want to do it again. I
think something draws you to me. Whatever you felt
for this Bowers, he didn’t make you feel the way you
feel with me.”
She slapped him. Hard. She did it without thinking,
angry he dared speak of something so private.
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Even angrier because what he said was true. She
had cared for Timothy, adored him, loved him. Their
love had been perfect in every way but one.
His kisses didn’t fire her blood. His caresses didn’t
inflame her body. She had thought something lacked
in her. She had thought she was incapable of passion.
It was no matter because she loved Timothy.
But she was not incapable of passion.
And she had another realization. She was far weaker
than she had ever imagined. Even the thought of
Cutlass made her lips tingle, her breasts feel heavy, her
cheeks grow warm. He was Timothy’s murderer, and