Page 25 of Any Duke in a Storm

Distraught, he stood again and shouted, his voice hoarse. “Bess! You stubborn witch of a woman, I know you’re alive! You’re a fucking Valkyrie! No paltry ocean can conquer you. Answer me!”

When no reply came, he cursed and searched the waves again. Exhaustion and defeat slumped his shoulders. It had been a shot in the dark. The sea did not give up its conquests so easily, and he’d been a bloody fool to even try…to make such an arrogant, preposterous promise. Finding anyone who’d gone overboard would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. He should know. Over years of sailing, he’d lost dozens of men to the sea in storms. Death by drowning, not to mention the predators that hunted beneath the waves.

I’m sorry.

“Going my way, Pirate?” His eyes snapped open, certain he’d imagined that thready, airless voice. The brain loved to play tricks when it was weary.

“Bess?” He stood up so quickly, he nearly toppled into the ocean himself, only to see the impossible. Bess floated in the water, held buoyant by the cork vest she wore. Blond hair was plastered to her skull and her reddened eyes looked like she’d faced down death and survived, but it was the limp body held in the crook of one arm that made him release a breath of astonishment. “You got her? She alive?”

“Barely,” she said as he hauled the girl in first, feeling the faintest of pulses in her wrist. “How did you find us?”

“I don’t even know,” he said and lifted her into the boat.

Bess licked crusted lips. “Put the cork vest on Narinajust in case,” she whispered, panting with probably the first full breaths she’d taken since she went overboard. She untied the straps and passed him the heavy garment. Raphael did as she requested, gently situating the bulky jacket around the unresponsive girl. If they made it to safety, she would need a doctor.

“There should be a tarpaulin near the bow,” Bess rasped. “Use it to cover Narina so she can get warm. Should be water there, too.” At his look, she gave him a weak smile. “I like to be prepared.” He dug under the tarpaulin near the bow and passed her one of the bottles before pulling the covering over Narina, making sure she had room to breathe. Bess took a long draught and moved to trickle a few drops into the girl’s mouth before offering the rest to Raphael.

He shook his head. “You drink. You need it more.”

“Where’s theSyren?” Bess asked.

“Estelle is sailing her to Nassau. I told her we’d meet her there.”

Rubbing her arms, even as a cool mist still drizzled from the sky, Bess blinked and stared doubtfully at the oars. “We’re going to row there? Do you know where we are?”

Raphael pulled out the compass from his pocket and watched the mica dial settle halfway between the triangular north marker and the circular south marker. “Our last position on theSyrenwas heading west to outrun the storm, and then I rowed north to track where you went in after the girl. If I’m right, we might be near the southern end of the archipelago. If we keep heading northeast, we’ll hit land.”

“Are you certain?”

He grinned with a wink, working one of the oars to point the boat in the direction of travel. “What kind of sailing master would I be if I wasn’t?”

“Aren’t most of those coral islands uninhabited?”

The grin on his face widened. “Some are and some are not. You’ll see.” Bess frowned, her pert nose wrinkling at his much-too-cryptic reply. He took pity on her after a beat, given her ordeal. “You wanted to go to Smugglers Cove, didn’t you? Well, sit tight because here’s your chance.”

Her mouth fell open and then snapped shut.

For once, he’d struck her speechless.

Eight

Lisbeth’s eyelids cracked painfully apart, filtered sunlight guttering through her lashes. Wincing, she blinked through the salty grit crusted on her irises. Her brain belatedly registered that she was warm and lying cocooned beneath soft sheets. On a bed. Alive. Or maybe she was dead and none of this was real.

She blinked rapidly, staring up at the wooden beams crossing the length of the room and the scent of fresh sea air that wafted through the curtains. She could hear the sound of waves breaking on a shore in the distance and the soft murmur of voices. Perhaps she was only dreaming and she simply needed to awaken.

Get up!

Lisbeth tried to obey the voice in her head, but was prevented from sitting up by the weight slung across her abdomen. Distractedly, she glanced down and froze at the vision of a bronzed, thick forearm that was dusted in dark hair. Lisbeth’s eyes traveled across it. The arm that made her dry mouth even drier was connected to a very shirtless, very male body. Bloody hell, she was definitely dead because as a rule of thumb, she never let anyone sleep in her bed.

Her head was pounding, a painful thump echoingbetween her temples. Dear God, had they put into port somewhere and she got so senselessly cup-shot that she’d climbed into bed with a stranger and spent the entire night without realizing it? Worse things had happened, she supposed. And it had to have been quite a night because every single muscle in her body was sore. And not the pleasant kind either. She felt like she’d been chewed up and spit out by a tornado.

Her eyes flew wide as she remembered, and she shoved the arm off. “Narina!”

The owner of the arm groused. “She’s fine. Looked over by a doctor and resting. Go back to sleep for the sake of soft, sweet beds everywhere.”

Saint? Lisbeth’s eyes bulged so forcefully she worried they’d fall from her skull. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of her body that seemed clad only in a thin night rail beneath the sheets. She clutched the bedclothes to her breast, and he groaned, shifting from his side to his back and flinging an arm over his eyes.

Lisbeth was treated to an unobstructed view of a broad chest, the striking ink that rippled along his right pectoral, and that damned nipple ring that made the breath squeeze in her lungs. She had no idea why that small piece of jewelry seemed so attractive on him. So sultry. She’d known several women in Paris who’d gotten them, and most sailors had all manner of body parts inked or pierced. Her gaze panned to the abdominal muscles stacked like paired bricks and the trail of dark hair that led to a low-slung waistband and…a substantial bulge.

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