Page 15 of Any Duke in a Storm

He isn’t reliable.

No, it wasn’t that. She was usually an excellent judge of character, and for all his inconsistencies, she sensed Raphael Saint lived by some internal code of honor. A dishonorable man would have let her die and then made a play for the vacant position of captain himself. He was no mere sailing master, of that she was now sure. Everything about himcommandedas though he was well familiar with the position of leadership. A captain himself, perhaps.

Like recognized like.

Lisbeth frowned. It wasn’t often that someone got under her skin so quickly or easily. Her frown deepened. Butwhywas she allowing it? Coming to her defense was in itself an act of loyalty, but not one that invited blind faith or instant devotion. As a spymaster, she had met many people in her line of work who had exceptional skills. Some could blend in anywhere and make themselves practically invisible—or the opposite, if the situation warranted.

Others could feign any accent or change the entirety of their features with a simple expression. She’d also known masters of espionage who could infiltrate any society by virtue of affability and charm. They attracted fidelity—people desired to be near them and became desperate to have them in their lives. It was a personality trait that required incredible discipline. Her senses sharpened. Was Saint one of those? Dear God, was he aspy?

She almost balked at the thought. No. Of course he wasn’t.

Then why hadn’t she seen him take a sip of spirits despite smelling like a rum distillery? Why did that quick, ingratiating mockery of a smile make her instantly doubt his veracity? How had he known a reliable arms merchant in Barbados on short notice? And why did she sense he had confidences he would die to keep hidden? Everyone had secrets, but a man like him with such an affinity for deception undoubtedly had more.

Stop thinking about him, for pity’s sake! You have worsethings to worry about than a man you probably won’t see ever again after a few days.

Perhaps she was sinking too deep into her own worries and her fear of failure. It was possible that he was simply a sailor in need of a ride to Nassau. In her gut, however, she knew the assumption was false. There was nothing simple about Saint, although he pretended to be. But even if he was the most charismatic, charming person on the planet, Lisbeth had a job to do, and that meant reinfiltrating the tight ranks of the crème de la crème of smugglers. This was her last chance and she could not—would not—squander it.

Lisbeth tightened her hands on the wheel and sharpened her purpose. If Saint was a captain or had been a captain, she had to know what he knew about the port they were headed for. Drawing in a deep breath of the briny sea air, she nodded to Estelle and jerked her chin to her quarters. It was time for some interrogation.

“Saint,” she called, descending the stairs with a glance up to him. “With me.”

His face angled to hers, and for a moment what she saw there made her heart quicken, in light of her earlier thoughts. It was barely a blink, but again, if she hadn’t been trained to observe, she would have missed it. A shrewd, tenacious look was swiftly exchanged for the blithe expression he was careful always to wear. The change in his facial appearance was staggering. The former made his square jaw hard, dominant, and unyielding, while the latter softened his entire face into compliance and an unthreatening demeanor.

Curious. She had to admit it; despite herself, she was impressed.

Lisbeth had always been drawn to complex people, usually those who were the wrong sort. Complex butcomplicated. People too much like herself—with the weight of enough baggage they could sink this very ship. The part of her that thrived on puzzles wanted to dissect and study him. Learn how that clever, cunning mind of his worked. Examine and appreciate the skills that came so naturally to him.

Half of her crew had already accepted him, and it was only a matter of time before the rest did. He respected the rules, he was witty and humorous, and he shouldered his share of the work. Even the stalwart Estelle had mellowed. That was probably because he had saved Lisbeth’s life, but still. No one was that charming. Sadly, solving the fascinating mystery that was Saint wasn’t the priority. Learningwhoandwhathe knew was.

Lisbeth flicked a hand at Smalls to follow, ever her faithful shadow, even though she was more than capable of taking care of herself with one man. She needed a witness in case she skewered the sailing master by accident. Interest seemed to be at constant war with irritation where he was concerned. How could one person fascinate and yet rile her so much?

Thattook talent.

Saint fell into step beside her, and she was acutely aware of his presence. Her nostrils flared, preparing herself for the stench of rum, but for once, he did not stink of sourliquor. Instead, the clean masculine scent of something citrusy and crisp wafted off of him. It was not unpleasant. Had he availed himself of a bath in Bridgetown in addition to shaving? She had certainly taken advantage of a good soak, but she hadn’t expected him to. Sailors and hygiene did not always go hand in hand.

Another incongruity.

Speckled gray-brown eyes captured hers, mischief dancing in them, his voice pitched low and raspy. “You summoned me, Captain, my captain? Is it time for that tongue-lashing you promised? Or was that a regular lashing? Either way, I am your willing servant.”

Heat filled her cheeks. Heavens, why was everything that came out of his mouth so suggestive? She had met many flirtatious people, but he was truly outrageous. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, chérie, I only want to please you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. That was a French endearment, wasn’t it? He’d said he had been born in France. The hairs on her arms lifted, not warning of danger…but something else. Something much more startling that she hadn’t felt in a long time. With her occasional dockside trysts, and even with Estelle, she always kept her mind and body separate. And yet, the tug in her center was recognizable.

Lisbeth squashed down the sudden, inconvenient warmth that swirled through her veins, that made her nipples bead and tighten. Now wasnotthe time for arousal. She was intrigued by the puzzle that was the sailing master, nothing more. Certainly not attracted to him because thatwould be absurd. The heat in her belly billowed and she ruthlessly tamped it down. She was a master of her body, not the reverse.

“Just Captain or Bess will do.”

“Bess.” He rolled her name over his tongue like a treat to savor, and suddenly, she regretted giving him leave to call her anything so personal. It wasn’t even her real name and she felt like he was whispering it between tangled sheets.

Lisbeth reached her quarters and opened the door, canting her head for him to enter. “We need to talk.”

A full lip and dark brow quirked in tandem. “Talk? In your bedchamber? How downright wicked of you.” He clutched a hand to his chest like a born thespian. “I do declare, Bess, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I am not that kind of man.”

Jolting again at the sinful caress of her name, Lisbeth rolled her eyes. “Nor am I that kind of woman. And you very well know it’s an antechamber, not mybedchamber, since you’ve trespassed in here before without my permission.”

“I needed a pistol,” he pointed out. “To save your life.”

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