by Debra Dunbar
Raine was tempted to ask how she knew Corvindale, and more importantly, how she was so familiar with the Dracule and their various afflictions—down to the fact that a sharp stake pointed toward the heart was a show-stopper—but he chose not to.
Instead, he noticed for the first time, as she was writing, that her rolled-up sleeve revealed a tattoo on the inside of her left arm. He couldn’t quite make out what it was, but…A woman with a tattoo. He found it fascinating, and more than a little arousing.
Dammit. His gums were swelling again. Not to mention other parts of him.
“I received Corvindale’s message nearly a month ago. Frankly, I’d expected you to arrive much sooner, St. Albans. The matter sounded far more urgent than you appear to be—er—taking it. Or did you simply take your time so as to enjoy a Caribbean holiday before getting to work? You wouldn’t be the first. Most Englishmen find it difficult to resist the sand, the surf—and of course the big, hot tropical sun?”
Raine smothered a laugh. “You are a witty one, Captain. Am I to understand you are, nevertheless, agreeable to assisting me? To track down the Devil’s Target?”
“Possibly.” She sat in a leather-upholstered captain’s chair that seemed to dwarf her petite figure and looked at him. “That’s a dangerous proposition, even for me and the crew of the Black Lass. The Target is one of the fastest, sneakiest vessels on the sea. Not to mention dangerous. Captain Ajab has a reputation of being nearly as ruthless as I am.” Her pretty lips twitched. “What sort of remuneration can I expect?”
Raine admitted he was surprised that she seemed far more educated and erudite than most of the young ladies back in London—with the exception of Maia Woodmore, who, according to Corvindale, was just as fascinatingly infuriating as this female captain was turning out to be. She spoke well, did mathematical and navigational calculations, and was clearly captain in more than name.
And she smelled like ambrosia.
He could hardly keep his attention from drifting to the creamy white throat, bared by the neckline of her shirt, and the image that had been inked into her skin in the shape of…it seemed to be a bird of some sort. A raven perhaps?
“Remuneration?” he replied, his voice dropping low as he thought of how many different ways he could respond. “Well, captain, it depends what sort of remuneration you’d be seeking. There’s monetary, of course—the obvious one. But also political, for surely as the dreaded pirate of the Black Lass, you could use some help in that area. There’s also the…er…private sort of payback, if you will.”
He allowed the glow that had been banked in his eyes to smolder brightly once more. His breath was unsteady and his pulse pounded, and he was alone in a chamber with a woman whose very scent was like to driving him mad—and her mind and tart tongue were just as titillating. He had no doubt that whatever was under her clothing wouldn’t disappoint.
She wouldn’t mind. They never did. He made certain they enjoyed it as much as he did—if they even remembered. His fangs were halfway exposed, and he caught her bright eyes, holding those dark, gold-flecked ones, beckoning…tugging…luring.
She gave a soft sigh, hardly more than a puff of air. But to him it was the sound of victory, of acquiescence. Her gaze became slightly unfocused and she seemed to shudder deep inside.
“Shall I give you a taste of what I mean?” he murmured, drawing her closer with his powerful gaze. “And perhaps you might allow me a little sample as well.”
“I…” she breathed. Her eyes were fastened on his, her lush lips parted, and that spicy, intriguing, sea-tinged aroma that made up her perfume grew slightly stronger, as if it were a measure of her willingness and burgeoning arousal. Ahh, yes.
Raine realized his fingers were unsteady as a school boy’s as he drew her closer and fumbled with the leather straps that crossed over the mystery of her breasts. The accoutrements fell to the ground in a dull clattering thump, but he hardly noticed, for she had filled his senses: the scent of her, the sight of her wide, dark eyes and their thick lashes, the softness of her skin, the quiet rush of her breath—quicker now.
His fangs were fully extended, but he realized he wanted something more than to plunge them into her shoulder. He wanted to taste her…in the old-fashioned way.
The way he’d done to a woman before everything changed.
“Let me kiss you, my lovely pirate,” he whispered, and he bent to cover her lips.
Oh, Luce…they were…she was…sweet and soft and lush. Warm and sleek. He groaned softly when she leaned into him, and he pulled her closer, slipping his tongue past her plump lips and tangling with hers—sleek and hot and delicious. Her breasts pressed against him, and he realized with a start she’d stepped up onto his boots to reach him more easily.
His fangs were long and ready now, getting in the way of the kiss. His blood pulsed with heat and need, filling his ears with a roaring sound. He pulled away, breathless, ready for more.
He looked down as he yanked the edge of her shirt from her shoulder, and met her sleepy, glazed eyes.
Except that they were neither sleepy nor glazed.
They were stone-cold sober.
…And he felt that damned wooden stake again. This time, it was poking into his torso from the back.
“I decline,” she said.
Chapter 2
It took everything she had for Arial to keep her voice steady and her knees firm. Her head was bloody spinning, her breath wanted to come in pants, and the entirety of her body felt as if it had been turned into a puddle of liquid. Hot liquid.
She stepped back, off St. Albans’ boots (how the bloody hell had she ended up stepping onto them?) and let the wooden pike she gripped fall to her side.
The man’s expression was almost payment enough for the pain in the arse taking on his mission was going to be. It was a combination of shock, ruefulness, and lust.
And, she noted with pleasure, his fangs had retracted a little.
“Pardon me?” he managed to say in that smooth, deep voice that made her belly shiver.
“I said, I decline. Your offer of payment.” She smiled and gripped the stake more tightly so as to hide the trembling of her fingers. She settled her other hand on her hip for the same reason. “At least, in that form. Corvindale indicated you’d be willing to pay me—and in cold, hard cash, St. Albans. Not your…er…prowess in bed.” She managed to make her tone sound doubtful, but wasn’t certain she’d succeeded.
Especially when those lethal vampire eyes settled on her once again. She steeled herself against the little tug…the warm furl of desire and supplication that was part of the thrall of the Dracule. It snaked around her insides, curling about her belly, sliding up over her shoulders, and drew her thoughts and self closer.
Or attempted to.
She blinked and the strong sensation evaporated like a soap bubble.
“I’m going to have you thrown overboard if you continue to try and enthrall me,” she said. “Not only is it arrogant and rude, but it’s making me very angry. And clearly, it’s not working.”
He stared at her, and uncertainty replaced the alluring glow in his eyes. “Of course it was. You were putty in my hands. You were just about to let me…” His voice trailed off as she continued to look at him with a knowing expression.
Now the shock was even stronger in his sea-blue gaze.
“You…broke away. You stopped me. It wasn’t working.”
If she hadn’t been so annoyed by his presumption, Arial would’ve felt sympathy for his suddenly lost expression. He looked like a little boy who’d just learned he had to go to school instead of playing pirates. Thank God she’d never had to do that. Everything she’d learned, she’d learned here or on her mother’s ship, through her own reading and studying and a little bit of tutoring when she needed it.
“No, St. Albans. It wasn’t working. None of the three times you attempted to enthrall me worked.”
Then his eyes narrowed. “But you let me kiss you. You kissed me ba
ck.”
She lifted a brow. “While fully conscious of that decision.”
Something flickered in his expression, followed by an abashed smile. “Well, that’s something. You appeared to enjoy it.”
“One can look at it that way,” she replied. “Or one can look at the fact that I explored the situation, and then chose to end it, and here we are—back to the discussion of payment. And the mission at hand. Instead of…” She flapped her hand toward the curtained area of the chamber, where, surely, he’d been intent on getting her.
The fact that St. Albans had kissed her—and remarkably well; her body was still thrumming hot—instead of immediately trying to feed on her was the main reason she’d allowed him that close.
And because he was someone she wanted to kiss.
Who wouldn’t? He was handsome—but then most all the Dracule were handsome. She supposed that might be part of the bargain they made with Lucifer—along with the immortality and extra strength that came along with it. However that worked.
But St. Albans…he was extraordinarily handsome, with his dark mahogany hair and sleepy blue eyes. His skin was sprinkled with an ocean of freckles, giving him a bronzed appearance. He was tall—too tall for her taste—but she appreciated his broad shoulders and the shape of his hands. And his mouth…well, it was dangerous and perfect at the same time.
“Thus,” she forced herself to continue, “we need to speak plainly on terms. I’ll take you to find the Devil’s Target, and you’ll pay my fee. Which will be: the entirety of the spoils on the ship, except for the one item you wish to retrieve. Is that agreeable?”
“It is.”
“Very well. We have a deal.” She’d started for the bellpull, which would ring for Bladsoe, her first mate, when she noticed St. Albans’ expression. “What is it?”
“I do believe the agreement of a deal requires some form of…consummation between the two parties.” His eyes were so very dark and blue, and though they held none of the Draculian glow, they seemed to burn.
“In lieu of a written contract, a handshake is customary,” she replied, furious by the way her belly had dropped at his words, and the way her pulse spiked. How dare he have this effect on her?
“A handshake will suffice.” He stepped forward, and Arial, with some misgiving, did the same.
She extended her hand, and he took it in a firm handshake…but just as she was about to pull it away, he tightened his grip and lifted it to his mouth, turning her hand to expose the inside of her arm.
“St. Albans,” she warned, expecting his fangs to shoot forth and slide into the sensitive skin of her wrist.
But instead, he merely pressed his mouth to the translucent white skin, where her blue veins pulsed erratically beneath. His lips were soft and moist, and the touch sent warm and delicious prickles in a swarm all over her arm and torso.
She felt the slide of his fangs against—but not into—her skin, felt the heat of his breath, suddenly more harsh against her. His lips and tongue traced the length of her wrist, up toward her elbow, over her tattoo…slowly, sensually, sleekly.
At any moment, she expected him to plunge his fangs into her flesh, to release the hot surge of blood that pounded recklessly inside her. She shivered, aware that her knees were weak and she wanted him to touch her and kiss her everywhere.
With that realization, her eyes bolted wide from where they’d become drugged by arousal, and she tugged her hand away.
To her surprise, he allowed her to do so, and she curled her arm—unmarked but for the moisture left by his lips and tongue—against her belly.
“I’d say that will suffice to seal our deal,” she said, then added briskly, “The longer we delay pulling anchor here in Barbados, the longer it will take to find them.”
He seemed to take a moment to collect himself. As well, he was taking no pains to hide his thrusting fangs—as if to demonstrate that he hadn’t used them. She refused to allow him the satisfaction of looking lower to see whether other parts of him were full and extended.
“I cannot argue with that. As far as I’m concerned, you can pull anchor now,” he said, glancing toward the glass windows where the crew was moving about, doing their tasks in preparation for leaving port. They were as ready to get away as she was. “Are they trustworthy?”
Arial crossed her arms over her middle. “As a priest. Which, I realize isn’t saying much, but you get the idea.” She’d handpicked every man on this ship, save two newer mates, and they were not only loyal to her, but would give their lives for her. Each one of them, without hesitation. As she’d do for them as well.
He was still looking out through the windows, his brow furrowing so there was a vertical line above his nose. “You don’t ever…er…worry that one of them might…well, you are a woman, and of rather small stature—”
“Do I worry one of them might attempt to assault or rape me?” Arial gave a short bark of laughter. “Not at all. I’m not their…sort. If you understand my meaning.”
Which was, partly, the reason for her predicament here with St. Albans: that she’d fallen for his smooth voice, godlike good looks, and the fact that she hadn’t taken a lover in far too long.
“Ah.” He seemed far too pleased with that information. Before she could respond, he continued, “Do you know where the Devil’s Target is?”
“Not precisely, but I will soon,” she replied.
When he looked at her curiously, she wondered if perhaps she’d said too much. Even her crew didn’t know—except for Bladsoe. But though St. Albans appeared ready to press for further information, she shook her head and reached for the bellpull, yanking hard twice. “I’ve got work to do.”
Then an unpleasant and yet titillating thought struck her. “I suppose you’ll have to stay in here, at least while the sun is up. Unless you want to bunk with the crew belowdeck.” She couldn’t hold back a sudden grin. “They’d love to have you, I’m certain.”
To her surprise, he smiled back. “How kind of you to officially invite me to share your quarters, Captain Bonny. I accept.”
Arial frowned—that was a problem she hadn’t anticipated—and swept from the chamber to harass her men into working faster. The sooner they were out to sea, the sooner she could find the Devil’s Target…and the sooner she could be rid of St. Albans.
Arial managed to avoid both her chamber and St. Albans for several hours as the Black Lass cut speedily through the choppy, dark blue waves of the Caribbean. But as the sun began to sink lower, she knew it was only a matter of time before he made his appearance on the shadowed deck and disrupted her thoughts—and pulse—again.
It should have occurred to her what accommodations would have to be made for a Dracule sailing with her when the Earl of Corvindale wrote, requesting her help. (The fact that Corvindale had actually asked instead of demanded was in itself remarkable.) And Arial hadn’t thought too much about it, being pleased to have a way to assist Corvindale and his cabal of vampires as he worked to destroy—or at least hamper—Cezar Moldavi.
Moldavi was one of the most hated and feared of the Dracule, as well as those who sailed, traded, and even pirated on the seas. Though Arial hadn’t been to the Far East for over a year, she well knew the trouble and violence Moldavi wrought with all of his spice ships.
But it was when his men had taken over the Bonny Lass, the ship her mother had left her, and set fire to it—burning not only the vessel, but all of her crew, with the exception of Bladsoe—that Arial vowed vengeance against the man.
The letter that came from Corvindale by way of a speedy hawk from London had been one step in that direction. And though Arial would never admit it to St. Albans, she would have carried him on his mission without any sort of payment. She hated Moldavi not only for murdering her crew, but also for destroying her mother’s legacy. The legendary Ann Bonny had been the most feared female pirate in all the Caribbean—but she never killed without justification. Arial had sailed and pirated with the Bonny Lass, in her memo
ry and in her honor.
And also because she liked the wealth and jewels it brought her.
If it got a little lonely at times, being the only female on board a ship of men who had no interest in her—and, in fact, feared her…well, she could handle that.
The more pressing question was whether she could handle Raine St. Albans.
Although he was very quiet, she heard the faint scuff of a footstep even over the roar of the waves and wind.
Arial turned to see his tall figure, thankfully devoid of the covering cloak and that silly hat he’d been wearing earlier. Now he stood in the pink- and orange-cast twilight (the Caribbean really did do the best sunsets in all the world), his hair ruffling in the breeze, his eyes dark and silent as they regarded her. With not a hint of vampiric glow in them.
“How punctual you are, Lord Norringford,” she said dryly. “The sun has no sooner set than here you are, prowling about my deck. Looking for something to eat, I assume.”
As soon as she said those words, she regretted them, for there rose in his eyes that same hunger she’d seen in her chamber. It was the same hunger that caused the blood in her own veins to surge and pound, to strain to be released. A hunger for sustenance…yet also a primal, sensual one.
It was a hunger she fully understood—though in a different way.
And it was a hunger she wondered whether he could—or would—bother to control.
“Are you offering?” he replied in a most mild tone. As if he didn’t care how she responded.
But his eyes…they said something altogether different. They challenged. They coaxed. They seduced.
For a moment, Arial almost did. She already knew she wanted to get him into bed—it had been clear to her even before he kissed her that there was sizzling attraction between them.
And, dammit, there was her heart again—pounding as if she’d been running or flying or diving again—and due only to the way the man looked at her.