How dare he treat her as if she were nothing but a common wench? “I haven’t finished my drink.” She gave him a pleading look. “Just another moment?”
He crossed arms over his chest and waited. Churlish bore! He used to be quite entertaining, but apparently the drab prude had leeched all the fun out of the man. What a shame.
A glaze crept over his eyes. He blinked, wobbled, and gripped the table beside him.
Josephine smiled.
A minute later, Blake fell, struck his head on the edge of the table, and collapsed to the floor. Finally.
Setting down her glass, Josephine knelt beside the unconscious pirate and ran the back of her hand over the stubble on his jaw. He’d grown even more handsome in the past five years. Pity. With the addition of the potion she’d concocted, he wouldn’t wake for days. By then, she’d be long gone on her way to conquer everything and everyone in her path.
Lifting his limp hand, she admired the Ring. Lantern light penetrated the crimson jewel, ricocheting out in copper beams. Solomon’s Ring! Could it truly be? The one ancient artifact every witch, warlock, and sorcerer craved above all else. Now it would be hers!
She tugged on it. It wouldn’t budge.
She twisted it and yanked again. Nothing.
Cursing, she glanced around the chamber for some salve, anything with which to loosen it. That’s when she felt it. Light, virtue, goodness. Her skin prickled. A foul taste rose in her mouth. It was the enemy! His power sifted through the walls and marched toward her like a legion of holiness. Hurriedly, she tried to twist the Ring, desperate to remove it. But the light enveloped her. She couldn’t breathe. Her blood became ice. Rising, she gripped her throat, gasping for air, and darted from the room.
b
Emeline allowed her eyelids to close. For just a moment. Just a moment in which she could give in to the exhaustion beckoning her to drift into oblivion. To a place where she was not a prisoner of a mad pirate captain, where she was not sitting beside said captain’s bed, wondering if he would live or die.
Instead of, at this very moment, rowing herself to safety and freedom.
But when she’d burst into his chamber and found him unconscious on the floor, blood oozing from a gash on his forehead, she did the only thing she knew to do, the right thing. She called for help. The French lady was nowhere to be seen, though the chill that had struck Emeline in her chamber was even more present in Blake’s—a sharp, icy chill that penetrated flesh and bone and speared straight for the soul.
Finn answered her call for help, and soon they had Blake in his bed and Sam tending his wound. Still, after several hours, the infernal pirate had not woken up despite Sam’s many attempts waving smelling salts beneath his nose. “The blow to his head was not hard enough to cause such a long sleep,” Sam had said, frowning with confusion before he and Finn finally left to return to their beds.
Emeline refused to leave. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, and she didn’t feel right about leaving Blake alone and unable to defend himself.
“Lord, please heal this man. You told us to pray for our enemies.” Leaning over, she placed a hand on his arm. “So, I’m praying for Blake. Heal him and deliver him from this illness and evil.”
A swath of gray light floated through the window, looping over the sill, easing across the floorboards and over the rug before spreading out, chasing away the gloom of night. Hugging herself, Emeline glanced around the room, still feeling the chill of the night. “In the name of Jesus, I command all evil to depart this chamber!” She spoke the words with the authority and faith her parents had taught her to use when wielding the weapons God had given those who love Him.
Thunder rumbled as a breeze wafted in and cloaked Emeline in instant warmth. “Thank you, Lord.” Why had she not realized until now the source of the icy oppression she’d felt? ’Twas no doubt due to evil spirits brought in by…she glanced at the Ring on Blake’s finger.
He moaned, his lips moving. His breathing heightened, and he reached up and touched the wound on his forehead.
“Blake,” Emeline said, drawing his gaze.
Oddly, he smiled before confusion wrinkled his brow.
“You fell and hit your head.”
Heaving an aggravated sigh, he pushed to sit and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, shaking his head and uttering a curse.
Emeline backed her chair up. “Perhaps not as much rum next time?”
“I didn’t fall,” he barked a bit too loudly. When she stood to leave, he reached for her hand. “Forgive me, Emeline. My head feels like it has been fired from a cannon.”
She stared at him, unsure whether or not to leave. Certainly she was not in the mood to endure his ill temper when she’d given up a night’s sleep to tend him.
“Josephine,” he mumbled.
So, Emelinehadheard the French woman after all.
“I will summon her, Captain,” she said curtly before grabbing her skirts and turning to leave.
