Page 11 of Any Duke in a Storm

“But of course you are. Your mama could not pay the tax, my sweet, and so we’ve made other arrangements. You’ll work off her debt.”

Raphael felt anger billow in his chest. Narina was fucking twelve years old, from what he’d overheard, and the girl clearly had not consented to any such arrangement. Still, he did not move, watching to see what Bess would do. And besides, he was supposed to be on the ship.

He did not have long to wait. The throng watched with avid interest, though some of them definitely had an inkling of who she was. Raphael noticed that the rest oftheSyren’s crew had positioned themselves in the market square, weapons at the ready in case mayhem broke out. He almost wished it would. Since being in prison, he was itching for a rousing fight.

“Last chance. That’s your answer, then?” the captain asked in a bored voice.

The girl’s eyes widened in fear. “Bess, no! Those fucking flapdoodles killed Nestor and Lawrence.” Raphael’s lips twitched at the child’s colorful vocabulary and the insult to her captor’s masculinity.

“Flapdoodle,” Lisbeth drawled. “That’s a good one.”

“My cock is working just fine if you want to take it for a turn,” the foolish man boasted, licking his lips and cupping his crotch. “You’re new to my harbor. There’s a cost to dock on these here wharves.”

Bess burst into laughter, the sound so unexpected and rich that Raphael sucked in a breath. “Last I looked, you weren’t the governor of the Windward Islands.” Her brows raised. “In fact, I’m certain you don’t look like Sir James Walker at all. He’s Scottish and a bit stout.”

As if realizing that she wasn’t afraid of him at all and, worse, might be toying with him just a bit, the man’s eyes slitted. “One half of your ship’s spoils and no trouble. That’s the payment.”

Her smile grew teeth. “But alas, you underestimate how much I love trouble.”

That was all the notice the man had before all hell broke loose. In the half second it took for the bastard to blink, a small blade had lodged itself into his shoulder, launchingthe ruffian backward with a shrill howl. Raphael hadn’t even seen Bess move, though her palm had flexed against her hip where the brace of daggers were. The girl ducked out of her captor’s clutches and hurried to Bess’s side as pandemonium erupted. Shots were fired into the crowd, making most of them scatter, except for the perpetrators.

Raphael’s mouth fell open as he got his wish of seeing Bonnie Bess in action. Dieu, she was magnificent! She was a fluid artist in the midst of complete chaos, her body serpentine and vicious. Her fists flew in calculated blows…a soft throat here, a meaty torso there. Though she had blades and a pistol, she used none. She knew exactly where to hit, her fighting style nothing he’d ever seen before. A combination of strikes, lunges, spins, and jabs, it screamed of specialized military training, but had enough scrappy edges and movements to have been learned from the streets. Many, many kinds of streets.

Just who thefuckwas Bonnie Bess?

Since he was observing her so intently, he was the only one to see the leader with the blade in his shoulder standing with a loaded gun pointed right at her. Raphael didn’t hesitate. He took speedy aim with a gun he’d helped himself to from the captain’s own chambers and fired.

Indubitably, she’d be furious at his defiance of her orders…but at least she’d be alive.

Raphael grinned. He might not be, however.

Worth it.

Four

Lisbeth finished off the man she’d been fighting with a solid foot to the jaw. Her knuckles and legs ached, but in the best way. This was what she’d needed—a physical outlet for all of the excess energy running through her body. Coitus was overrated. A good brawl always got her blood flowing and her heart pumping. An orgasm might do that as well…but the ones with a competent lover came with complications, more often than not.

The short hairs on her nape stood up, identifying danger in close quarters, and she barely had time to turn before heat singed her cheek and a ball of lead sped past her head, much too close for comfort. The shot had come from the brute who’d mouthed off while threatening Narina, but someone had felled him before she could duck or defend herself.

Lisbeth huffed a grateful breath that her crew always had her flanks covered. Her gaze spanned the space and locked on her rescuer holding the smoking weapon. A grinning, much-too-smug man. Gratitude faded and fury overtook her instead. That miserable, disobedient cur! She stalked toward him. “I told you to stay with the ship,” she hissed. “I could have you lashed for such insubordination.”

The insouciant prick smiled. “You could, but I justsaved your life, so perhaps save the lashes for later. Perhaps even in the privacy of your cabin. They can go quite well after a few drams of whiskey, I’ve heard.”

His tone was teasing. Provocative. And the idea was…intriguing.

No,no.

It was terrible, rotten, idiotic. Out of the bloody question. Any punishments on her ship for misconduct—though she abhorred the brutal practice of lashings, preferring to toss culprits in the brig instead—were administered by Smalls or Estelle. Most of the crew agreed that Estelle was the harsher of the two, but the quartermaster only gave as much as she’d taken herself on far worse ships.

“I’ve shocked you speechless.” Laughing pewter eyes caught and sparkled in the sunlight. Tipping her head back to stare up at him, she could see the bright tawny-brown starbursts around his pupils fringed by eyelashes so thick, it seemed as if he’d applied kohl to his lids. He’d tied his hair back into a queue with a bit of leather, though some bits escaped around his face. Her stare drifted to the spent weapon in his opposite hand—a walnut-carved antique revolver with gold edgings along the barrel that looked strangely familiar.

Her eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that?”

“Your cabin.” He lifted it and pursed his lips. “Good design. A little too much recoil, but adequate to fell a man intent on my captain’s demise, I suppose. Though in close quarters, I’m much better with an épée.”

“You were inmycabin?” Good God, she didn’t care about the deuced gun or his proficiency with fucking swords. She cared that he’d dared trespass in a place she considered very private. Lisbeth blinked, almost incapable of a response. Her quarters were her space.Hers.

“Where else was I supposed to find a weapon in short order?” he returned cheerfully and then canted his head when his gaze dipped to her hand flexing convulsively over the hilt of her cutlass. The corner of his mouth curled up in its usual crooked smirk. “Don’t worry, I closed my eyes when I went near your sleeping area, though I must say those blue velvet curtains remind me of a much bawdier place than a ship. Classy taste, though.”

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