Page 16 of Any Duke in a Storm

As if she needed the reminder. Lisbeth gestured to the armchair on one side of the enormous desk that was covered with nautical maps and instruments. “Sit.”

Lisbeth closed the door, catching Smalls’s glare that she was shutting the door at all. She felt a long-forgotten whisper of propriety. It had been quite some time since she’d bothered with the tenets of female modesty. In London, an unmarried woman could not be in a room alone with aman—she would be ruined and shunned—and a married woman could not entertain a man in her private chambers who wasn’t her husband.

Not that she was still the latter. However, as the Countess of Waterstone, even with a marriage that had been wrought and subsequently dissolved for the sake of duty by the queen, she’d had to toe the lines of decorum. Out here on the seas, however, the only lines to follow were the ones of her own making.

She obeyed no one. She spoke her mind. She made the laws.

Lisbeth cleared her throat and propped one hip on the side of the desk, staring down at her quarry who had sprawled in the chair like an indolent king upon his throne. “On that subject, why did you feel the need to defy my express command? The truth this time.”

To her shock, he complied without fuss or mockery. “I kept watch and saw a man following you from the docks. He was armed and meant you harm.”

She shot him a dry look. “And you were certain of that intent from so far away?”

Saint shrugged. “He was careful to keep the same distance between you from the minute the rowboat docked. Far enough to be unnoticeable and close enough to attack. I’ve faced enough mercenaries to know how they move.”

“Why would you care about saving my life?” Lisbeth waved her arm. “You could have let me die and taken over my ship.”

That grin of his flashed, though it wasn’t as irritatingas it normally was. “Oui, I could have. But where’s the fun in that? All work and no pleasure makes Jacques a very dull boy.”

She ignored the not-so-subtle change in the adage and its resulting innuendo with effort, though her fingers brushed the hilt of her cutlass. His widening, knowing smile made her want to brandish it in his face. “Who are you? We both know you’re no ordinary sailing master, if that is what you are at all. What do you want in Nassau?”

“I told you. My crew on my last ship mutinied, and I seek an eye for an eye from the man who paid them to do so.”

Well, Lisbeth could understand vengeance. Swift and often brutal retaliation was part of their world after all. One did not cower when one’s territory was trampled upon. Power had to be seized and retained. Of course, the other smugglers had no idea that the men she cut down were murderers and rapists. Gossip was ruinous, but beyond proper London drawing rooms, it was also an excellent tool. It made the idea of Bonnie Bess much worse than the reality, and right now, she had to hold to that.

“Who is the man?” she demanded in a harsh tone.

The bastard had the audacity to chuckle. “That’s my business, Bess.”

Her molars ground together. “If you’re on my ship, it’smybusiness.” Eyes hard, she drew the curved blade from its sheath with no small amount of relish and pointed it at his chest. “Who?”

Saint didn’t flinch, even though the sharp tip cut through the fabric of his shirt with little effort. As the material gaped, the tips of a pair of shadowed wings on the right side of his chest snagged her attention. The tattoo didn’t surprise her. Most sailors had them. What did surprise her was the sudden desire to see more of it…to slice that shirt open from pectorals to navel and lay that art bare.

Focusing, she gritted her jaw. “I won’t ask again, Saint. Who?”

In a move she didn’t expect, he straightened, the tip of her blade going from fabric to skin with as much ease. A drop of scarlet blood welled and bloomed over the white linen like a poppy as metallic pewter eyes bored into her greens. Neither of them moved, the silent standoff between them only punctuated by the growing red stain on his shirt.

“Charles Dubois.”

Raphael saw the shine of shock followed by what looked too much like a strange burst of exhilaration in her eyes before she hid it.Interesting.What could she want with a cur like Dubois? If he asked, he knew she would not tell him, so he sat back with a loud sigh. He plucked at his ruined shirt and formed a pronounced pout. “I just bought this, you know, with the last of my coin. It’s not as though I have spares.”

“Get one from Smalls.” Bess wiped the blade on the edge of her sleeve and stuck it back into the sheath at her side.

“Have you seen the size of him? I’ll swim in his clothing.” Raphael’s eyes canvassed the lean female body that was snugly garbed in a buttoned vest, high-collared shirt, and fitted trousers. He’d seen many a woman on the seas in similar attire, and yet, none of them had ever looked like her. Like pure sin wrapped in deceptively soft wool. “I reckon yours would be a much better fit.”

“You wish to wear a woman’s shirt?”

He smirked. “No, you misheard me. I wish to wearyourshirt.”

Bess glared at him. “Honestly, did you fall on your head as a child?”

“Of course not, my sweet-tongued Viking.” A growl escaped her lips at the nickname as he knew it would. “Besides, you seem fond of gentlemen’s clothing. Why should you or anyone judge me for my preferences, if indeed I had a predilection for female attire?”

If her lips tightened any further, they would disappear. “No one is judging you, you daft man. I don’t care what you choose to wear. And I’ve changed my mind, it’s ‘Captain.’” Red spots formed on her cheeks, the fingers of her right hand twisting into the fabric of her trousers as she bolstered her fraying patience.

“It was quite fashionable and fetching, wouldn’t you agree?” He pouted again and scrubbed at the crimson rosette on his shirt. “Before you ruined it.”

“You ruined your shirt by leaning into a sharp blade like a simpleton.”

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