“Why do you even have a butler if you don’t let him tidy your house?” Charlotte asked, wrinkling her nose as she stepped on a dirty plate. “And scrub it... disinfect it... just burn it to the ground.”
Irritation flared in his heart, but he replied with perfect nonchalance. “I see you’ve been talking with Bixby. He is my butler because he has a black belt in karate, can kill a man seven ways using a bowler hat, and makes the best lamb stew this side of the Irish Sea. If he wants to waste his energy with cleaning, he has to keep it to his own rooms. This is a working battlehouse, not a Mayfair mansion. We had goats in here last week, and a government minister as a hostage the week before that, if you want to know how really mucky it can get.”
“I shall be sure to decontaminate myself later. But for now I require you to take me in pursuit of Lady Armitage, so that I may recover my amulet from her.”
“It’s true I just so happen to be going in that direction. Unfortunately, however, witches are not welcome in my house.” At those words, a spike of old, poisonous hatred fired his instincts, and only by curling his fingers into a fist could he prevent himself from touching the scars left by a certain witch who’d got into his house, his family’s heart, some twenty years ago. “But don’t worry,” he said, shoving the memory away with practiced brutality. “I have just the place for you to wait until we land and I can evict you. Nice and tidy, although lacking a view, I’m afraid.”
“You speak of a closet,” she said with remarkable perspicacity.
“I speak of a closet,” he confirmed.
Their eyes, still focused on each other, blazed. If the air between them became much hotter, Alex feared his house—or at least his something—would go up in flames.
“Captain O’Riley, you seem to be under the impression you have authority in this situation,” the witch said. “My gun, however, trumps your opinion.”
“But you will only have your gun for the next few seconds,” he told her calmly.
“I’ll shoot if you come near me.”
“Will you?” He didn’t give her time to lie. “I’m not moving. Smithson will be taking it off you.”
“Smithson?”
“Behind you.”
Her eyes narrowed, and he could easily guess what she was thinking. Almost certainly no one stood behind her, and turning to look would leave her vulnerable to him. But “almost certainly” left room for doubt, and doubt was a dangerous thing when dealing with pirates. Alex shrugged one shoulder carelessly, smirking at something, or someone, just over her shoulder.
She turned.
She pointed her gun at nothing.
He had it out of her hand, and her hand twisted up behind her back, before she could even register that she’d made the wrong choice. Pulling her against his body, he wrapped one leg around hers so she could not deploy those interesting shoes as weapons.
But as her warmth sank into him, the fresh clean smell of her hair softening his mental awareness, the press of her bustle hardening his physical awareness, Alex forgot the most dangerous part of her.
He barely heard the whispering before a crate of tea slammed into him.
Charlotte jolted as the crate hit the pirate’s shoulder. He staggered, grunting with pain. Immediately she yanked herself away, but he caught her again.
“Don’t bother. There’s nowhere to—”
“Aereo rapido!”
Maps flew up like wild geese, harsh and excited, to slap his face. He released her in order to bat them away, and Charlotte ran toward the hall that led to the wheelroom. If she got in there and barricaded the door, she could use her feminine wiles (i.e., witchcraft, weaponized shoes, multifaceted besom) on the butler to secure his help.
Suddenly her plan, and her body, lurched to a stop. Alex had snatched the bow of her ridiculous dress and, as Charlotte cursed Cecilia Bassingthwaite and her bad fashion example, he tugged her back against him.
“How dare—” she began, but his hand clamped over her mouth.
Charlotte was gobsmacked (literally) by the man’s rudeness. This all could have been resolved in a civil manner if he’d just offered her a cup of tea and a comfortable seat while she hijacked his house. That he hadn’t only proved what a scoundrel he was, and she would be sure to chasten him via lecturing or a moralistic burglarizing when she got the chance.
For now, however, she had no idea what to do. His grip was so strong, she could not even struggle; her heels clattered against the dusty wooden floor as he began dragging her backward across the room. Never before in her life had she done more than shake a gentleman’s hand. To have his arms around her, his palm pressed against her lips, was—was—
Unacceptable! Atrocious! Rousing! No, wait, revolting!
Jane Austen’s heroines, begged for assistance, offered bewildered silence. Unless he tried to propose marriage, they were at a loss as to how she might defeat him.
“Sorry about this,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t call me heartless, though. After I’ve retrieved the amulet I might let you look at it before I drop you back home.”
