The Rogue

by Emma V. Leech

  Henri gritted her teeth, glaring at him but keeping her counsel. She watched him, like a cat cornered by a ferocious dog. She might be outmatched, but she would use her claws at the slightest provocation. To her consternation he began to move closer to her once more and as she was already pressed tightly into the corner of the room, she found herself with nowhere to go. She tensed, not believing his earlier promises for a moment. He stopped barely inches from her and reached out to curl a lock of her hair around his fingers.

  “You liked it when I kissed you before,” he said, his voice low and husky. Henri felt herself grow hot at his accusation, she could do nothing to deny it. He leaned a little closer to whisper in her ear and she could feel the warmth radiating off him. “You kissed me back.”

  “I thought I would never see you again,” she countered, leaning harder against the freezing wood of the cabin wall and wishing she dared reach for the blade at his hip as he laughed again.

  “How very unladylike,” he said, apparently delighted. “To only kiss a man you are certain you will never see again.”

  “I hate you,” she said the words with venom, meaning it, and not caring that she sounded childish.

  “Good,” he said and she tried hard not to grind her teeth as the insufferable man grinned at her again. “I do like a challenge. And I promise you this...” He leaned down once more, placing his hands on the wall either side of her head, caging her in as his breath fluttered warm against her neck, making her shiver. “By the end of this voyage, you'll be begging me to kiss you.”

  Before she could think of an adequate retort to his outrageous suggestion he had turned on his heel and left the cabin, and once more she heard the key turn in the lock.

  Chapter 6

  “Wherein a pirate finds himself between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

  Lars sat on the edge of the hammock and regarded his boots with a sigh. The night had not gone as he had hoped, not by a long way. That the militia had come after him with such force had been an unpleasant shock. His somewhat romanticised and scandalous reputation as a pirate and corsair had always been a source of amusement to him. Suddenly his widespread fame wasn't so funny. Running from the world with his ship and his crew was one thing. Doing it with some ridiculous slip of a girl towed in his wake was quite another. If she was a day over eighteen he'd eat his hat.

  He suddenly felt his own twenty seven years bear down on him with the weight of centuries.

  “Well you've gone and done it now,” said Mousy, echoing his own thoughts.

  “If that's the extent of your help, I'll have my rum back thank you,” Lars replied, holding his hand out.

  Mousy swayed in his hammock and clutched the bottle in his good arm, hugging it to his chest. “Well there's no need to be like that. I didn't make you bring the blasted woman.”

  Lars sighed and regarded the big man with impatience. He had known Mousy since he was a small boy. In many ways it was entirely Mousy's fault that he was here at all. But he never mentioned that fact. He knew Mousy would never forgive himself anyway, and in truth his lifestyle and reputation as a pirate was not one of them. Although there were things he did regret, too many to count.

  He took a moment to consider what his life might have otherwise been and grimaced. He'd lived many lifetimes in those years, more than most men would ever have. No, he decided, ignoring the dissenting voice of his conscience, no regrets on that score.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he demanded of Mousy, glaring at him. “Leave the damn woman there? She's a lady after all.” He snorted, wondering when he'd become so generous. Ladies didn't generally go around blackmailing pirates, unless things had changed greatly in the years of his absence.

  “Perhaps,” Mousy conceded. “But a woman aboard will cause nothin' but trouble, so what the devil you goin' to do with her now?”

  Lars got to his feet and snatched the bottle back from Mousy, holding it to his lips and taking a long drink. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Damned if I know,” he said. In truth he would have happily put her back on land at the earliest opportunity but it was far too dangerous. He needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and the English coast as fast as he could. The likelihood that some bounty hunter would get wind of his arrival and decide to profit from it was far too great as it was.

  “Perhaps there'll be a reward for 'er?” Mousy suggested, hope lighting his eyes. Lars shook his head and handed him back the bottle.

  “Don't hold your breath. The last I heard Lord Morton didn't have a penny to his name.” He frowned as he realised this was likely the reason the girl had been trying to blackmail him. Was she in some kind of trouble? Or just trying to pay her father's debts? That the idea had even entered her head to brave the part of town only frequented by smugglers and the darker side of life staggered him. She had said that she was desperate - she must have been to risk that. He considered the courage it must have taken to enter that tavern alone and confront him. Well the girl had spirit that was for sure, either that or she was in such desperate trouble that she would take any risk. He frowned as the possibilities presented themselves. A man, he realised. It had to be a man who’d driven her to such lengths. The idea made him unaccountably angry, though he wasn't sure why or with whom.

  “What's gnawing at your guts?” Mousy asked, watching him with a curious expression. “Ye look like you've chewed on a weevil.”

  Lars snorted and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said and tried to school his expression into something more placid. Whatever trouble the foolish girl had got herself into, it was of no interest to him.

  "The kitten's got claws I see," Mousy added, gesturing with the bottle to the scratches down his neck."

  "Aye," Lars replied wincing. "And a damn sharp tongue to match."

  They sat in silence for a moment, the hammocks swaying in a lulling motion until Mousy spoke again.

  "Tol' ye t'was a bad idea, comin' back ere."

  Lars glared at him. "Well you're just full of helpful advice and comfort tonight, my friend."

  Shrugging his huge shoulders Mousy stared at the rum bottle with a bleak expression. "Feel responsible," the big man muttered, looking gloomy.

  Letting out a breath, Lars looked at him in exasperation. "Not this again! Good God, man. I've had ten years to get used to this way of life and, if I say so myself I've done a pretty fair job of it, so quit your bellyaching. You didn't put a gun to my head and I've never blamed you, so stop giving yourself more due than you're entitled to take."

  He watched as Mousy took a deep drink and shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his face. "Don't change nuthin', this weren't the life ye should 'ave led an' ye know it, well as I do."

  "Did the Doc give you Laudanum?" he demanded, and groaned as Mousy nodded, no wonder the stupid bastard was growing maudlin.

  “How's your shoulder?” he asked, steering the conversation away from the past and onto safer ground.

  Mousy rolled the offending limb experimentally and grimaced. “I'll live,” he said with a crooked smile.

  Lars nodded. “Be sure that you do. I've got enough trouble without you dying on me.” He got to his feet and clapped Mousy heartily on the arm.

  The enormous man groaned. “Ah, you black-hearted varlet,” he muttered. “I'll get you for that.”

  “I know,” Lars replied with a cheerful grin, before heading back up on deck.

  The bitter cold of the November night cut at him as he walked to the rail. After so many years in warmer climes, the ferocity of an English winter came as a shock and brought back memories. Log fires and crumpets, the tangy salt smell of a seaweed-strewn beach after a gale, of riding out on frosty mornings and returning to a warm, welcoming house, full of love and laughter. Thoughts of a place that had once been his home returned to haunt him. He hadn't thought of that life for a long time, hadn't allowed himself to. What was the point of dwelling on the past? Especially when he'd done so much harm to those he'd loved
. But now he remembered a place where he'd been happy, happier than he'd realised at the time.

  Even in the bright moonlight the jagged edge of the coastline that had once been so familiar to him was hard to make out. He'd been a fool to come back here. There was nothing here for him but ghosts. Though it seemed at least there was one less than he had believed. For that he was desperately relieved and grateful, and he smiled at the truth of it. The burden of that knowledge had been a weight around his neck and his heart for his whole life. Now it was gone. And yet everything he'd done, everything he'd become, had been because of that knowledge. To know that he'd been wrong all this time, that he hadn't been dammed after all made it a bitter-sweet feeling that enveloped him. Only his actions since that fateful night had put the noose about his own neck.

  He shook his head, raising his face and relishing the cold sting of sea spray against his skin. He'd made his own bed, and there was no one else to blame no matter what Mousy thought. Whatever had befallen him, he alone was responsible, and he would spend the rest of his days as an exile. It wasn't like there was anything to return to now. He had long since burnt those bridges and besides, he'd had many years to become accustomed to the idea. What was harder was the idea that the life he had made for himself was also over.

  Wellington had defeated Napoleon and the war was over. Europe had once more turned its attention to the Barbary corsairs and any fool could see that the pirates were a dying breed. Ironically he found he couldn't mourn for many of the men that would suffer. Most had made their fortune in the slave trade, which he had always found abhorrent. But it would no longer be possible to pick off fat American merchant ships, take their cargoes and ransom their more illustrious passengers as had been his own way of working the Mediterranean. Tripoli, Tunis, Algiers, all were lost to him. Out of bounds unless he wished to find his ship blown from the water and a brief dance with Jack Ketch until his neck was stretched,

  Which begged the question, what now?

  He had no answer to give. No safe destination, for there was none. It galled him that he had made his reputation on his quick thinking and decisiveness. Now he felt, almost literally, lost at sea.

  Mousy was right about one thing, he hadn't been born to this life. He'd been a mutton-headed sapskull, as green as they came and far too soft to survive for long. Those early days had been both the most miserable and the most enlightening of his existence. But in the end it had been quite literally sink or swim and swim he had. He'd learned to fight and to curse like the most hardened mariner, and to step up and take a beating, even if he was scared to death. But he'd also learned that his quick tongue and lively sense of humour could diffuse the most difficult situations, and somehow as the years wore on, charm, a shrewd intelligence and plain devilment had got him where he was; The Rogue, captain of a pirate ship and with a price on his head that quite stole his breath. It was laughable.

  Sleep, he decided. He needed to sleep. He'd barely had a moment's rest since land had been sighted on their ill-fated journey here. Now, with the adrenaline of his flight from the militia long since dispersed, he felt weary to his bones. He made his way back to his cabin, and was momentarily perplexed as to why his cabin door was locked. And then he remembered the blasted girl. He turned the key in the door with care, trying to make as little noise as possible and entered the cabin.

  The lamp was still burning low and the room was still. He waited, expecting any moment to be attacked with some heavy item or at the very least to find himself at the end of Miss Morton's sharp tongue. With care he touched his fingertips to the deep scratches down his neck and sucked in a breath. But all was quiet. Well she might look as sweet and innocent as a kitten, but the little bitch had claws as Mousy had observed, and he'd do well to remember it too. A sentiment he tried very hard to remind himself of when he crossed the room to find the little minx curled up, asleep on his bed.

  He reached for the lamp and held it up, so that the soft, golden light fell across her face. Claws or no claws, she certainly looked like an angel when she slept. Long, thick, dark lashes swept the curve of her cheek, her face surrounded by equally thick, mahogany curls, and her soft, full lips were slightly parted. For a moment, he allowed himself to remember exactly how soft and yielding her mouth had been the first time they'd met. He remembered the taste of her, the shock in her tawny eyes as she'd given into him, to her own desire. Need and lust burned in his blood, and he was forcefully reminded of just how long it had been since he'd laid with a woman. Dammit, but he wanted her. As if things weren't complicated enough. Still, at least seducing the infuriating Henrietta Morton should allow him some light entertainment during the voyage, even if he currently had no idea what the destination might be.

  With a roguish smile that he knew suited his reputation to perfection, he eased his way onto the bed. With care not to disturb his sleeping companion, he tucked himself in close behind her. At least she would be warm when she awoke. He chuckled inwardly as he imagined her indignation when she discovered him, and just how furious her expression would be when she greeted him in the morning.

  Chapter 7

  “Wherein a villain is forced to play the hero.”

  Alexander Sinclair, the fourth Earl of Falmouth, regarded the woman in front of him with no little scepticism. Despite Lord Morton's assurances that the woman was telling the truth, the truth sounded far too close to some outlandish Gothic novel to have anything other than a passing acquaintance with the real world. And yet, despite the fact that the woman appeared to be quite unsuited to the task of being lady's maid to his future wife, and more at home walking some of the seedier streets near the quay, he felt the fear and anguish in her eyes was indeed genuine. So she at least believed her story to be the truth.

  “Let me get this quite straight,” he said, keeping his tone cool and clipped and completely devoid of any human emotion. He abhorred outpourings of emotion of any kind, and had been forced to speak to the woman quite severely when she seemed likely to succumb to a fit of hysterics a few moments earlier. “Miss Morton left the house in the middle of the night, alone, and proceeded to make her way down to The Nag's Head, a notorious spot for smugglers and low-lives,” he added. He shook his head, once again struck by how unlikely the whole story appeared to be. “You followed her, without making her aware of your presence and watched while she entered the tavern alone.” He paused and fixed his icy, grey gaze on the woman. “You made no attempt to stop her or dissuade her from this foolish and possibly fatal endeavour I take it?” he added with contempt.

  The disgraceful creature just put her chin up and glared back at him, her arms folded across her ample bosom. “She's a big girl, knows 'er own mind. T'was 'er business, not mine to interfere in.” She held his gaze, totally unrepentant.

  “If that is the case,” Alex said, with growing frustration. “Why the devil were you following her?”

  “She's my girl,” the woman retorted some asperity, daring to look at him as if he had said something out of turn. “I've been with 'er since she was a child, and I love 'er like my own. I wouldn't see any harm to her.”

  Alex took a deep breath and struggled to keep his temper in check. “And yet, you allow her to walk in to a den of iniquity like the Nag's Head all alone?” he repeated, quite incredulous. “I take it you believed no harm would come to her there?” Although he had neither raised his voice nor changed his body language, he had no doubt that she could see the anger and disgust clearly enough in his eyes.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” the woman said with a sneer, using his title like it tasted unpleasant in her mouth. “But my Henri's resourceful an' brave, and t'would be a foolish man who got on the wrong side of 'er.” To his astonishment she said the words as though he was to blame for everything that had happened. “You just don't know 'er, not like I do.”

  “And now never likely to!” he said with such froideur and contempt that the brazen abigail had finally crumbled and buried her head in her hands, sobbing.

&nb
sp; The girl's father, Lord Morton, who had been dithering ineffectually while this conversation took place, ran to the woman's side and patted her shoulder. “There, there, Annie, Lord Sinclair will bring her back to us, don't you fret.” Henrietta's father was a well known and despised figure to the earl. The early death of his beloved wife had apparently robbed the man of his heart and his sense and he'd turned to gambling to ease the loss. Sadly the man had no aptitude and all too predictably found himself without a feather to fly with, mortgaging his family home with selfish lack of regard for his daughter that bordered on criminal. That the man himself was foolish and hopeless rather than cruel and heartless did little to soften Alex's opinion of him. In the society that he himself kept, Morton was a pitiable creature and it was oft said that when he told people with that familiar mournful expression that he'd lost his dear wife, one could never be quite sure he hadn't meant at the roulette table.

  The ridiculous man looked up at him now with such hope in his eyes that even Alex's cold heart was unable to contradict him. If the rest of the story was true and his daughter really had been kidnapped by the notorious Rogue, she was already beyond saving. Indeed Alex was moved to hope the girl was already dead, for he could not contemplate what fate awaited her at the hands of a pirate and his crew.

  “I will of course do everything I can to return your daughter to you, Lord Morton,” he said, knowing that it was unlikely he would return with anything more than a coffin, if that.

  To his horror Morton embraced him, sobbing upon his shoulder and giving Alex further cause to pity the appalling creature as he noticed the frayed collar of his jacket. “Oh, thank you, thank you, my lord. You are indeed a good man. I will be forever in your debt.”

  In the circumstances Alex decided not to mention that he was already forever in his debt as he had paid off all of the man's outstanding bills and forwarded a considerable sum to cover the costs of his impending nuptials to his now missing fiancée.