“Skye!”
His voice fell upon her like a gentle ray of sunlight. Her eyes flew open.
His face was above hers. Light filled the room; there had never been any darkness.
“Oh!” she cried, and she tried to cover her face with her hands. The fear had seized her, and would not let go.
He must have come to bed with her that night meaning to sleep, for his chest was bare, and though the coverlet spread over his lower torso, she assumed that his legs would be bare as well. It was the way that he slept.
His arms came around her and the gentle touch of his fingers led her cheek to rest against his chest. He stroked her hair. “What is the terror?” he asked her softly.
She shook her head. He sighed.
At last, her shaking began to ease. She pressed against him, her face rising upon his chest to meet his eyes.
“You—you needn’t comfort me.”
“It’s all right.”
“But you say that I crawl to you…and taunt you.”
“It’s all right.”
“I do not mean to do so.”
He caught her hands, and eased them from his chest. Her hair spilled over the golden breadth of it. His features seemed tense, for all of the gentle tenor of his words.
“Truly, you do not have to comfort me!” she whispered.
He sighed very deeply. “Milady, it is all right. It is my pleasure, Skye Kinsdale, I swear it. Lie still, and sleep once more.”
She closed her eyes, and felt his body shudder.
My pleasure! he thought.
And truly, torture beyond all earthly reason.
V
The Silver Hawk stood high atop the forward deck of his ship, legs firmly planted, his hands upon his hips. The breeze rushed by him as he surveyed the channel they so carefully navigated. They were clear, he knew. Robert was at the helm while certain of his sailors climbed the rigging with the agility of monkeys, leaving them enough sail to catch the breeze, but cutting in deftly for speed and maneuverability. They were coming upon the island of New Providence, to the lusty port town where rogues held sway and thieves and butchers ruled.
He knew the port well. He had come here often enough.
Some curious little tremor seized him suddenly, as if he had stepped from a hot bath into the chill of a winter’s day. He shook away the feeling with a shrug of his shoulders. There was danger here still, he thought.
But there was always danger. He had entered into this devil’s pact of his knowing that danger abounded.
Still, this was different.
It was the girl, he knew.
He should have gone on to Bone Cay, he thought, even if it increased his travel time. He couldn’t have done that, not plausibly so, but it was from this den of thieves that he would send his messages out and strike his bargains for the return of the ship and the hostages. And he had to come here now, for this was where the captains all came to plot their courses and pick their prizes. It was imperative that he come.
It was just the girl, damn her hide!
She would be safe. He would leave her carefully bolted within her room. They would take the long boats in, and he would leave her in the care of Jacques DuBray. That mammoth Frenchman was a master with a rapier. No harm would come her way.
He took his glass from his pocket and surveyed the scene they came upon. He could see the shanties of the town, the ribald colors and patterns that made up the pirates’ haven. Kegs of gunpowder and salt fish lay on a wharf. A dark-haired whore stretched atop the bow of a small cutter, her skirts high against her thigh, her legs bronzed from the sun. She waved a fan in a leisurely fashion, idly listening to the talk of the two men who straightened fishing nets nearby. Further into town, there were more decent structures that resembled houses, but most of the place was beach and shanty…and warehouse for ill-gotten gains.
