Page 11 of The Heart of an Earl

That was how she’d survived.

His brow furrowed. “Are you injured from the battle? Does something pain you?”

She shook her head, her trembling hand going to the front of her neck, her fingers playing on the scab from his blade. “Just some minor scrapes and the scab where I cut myself. You are truly him? Truly that man from thePrimrose?”

“Des.” He nodded, looking to say more, but then his face blanched. Without a sound, he abruptly stood and took a step backward. He paused by the door. “You can wash—I will go and retrieve some food and bring it back. Best that you stay in here for the time being.”

He waited until she nodded, her vision still blurry with tears, and he removed himself from the cabin.

She stared at the vertical boards of the door for long minutes, wondering on the man that had just saved her—and had tried to save her long ago.

Had her tears made him scurry away? Or the fact that she’d known him once, even if it had been for only a second in time?

One thing was certain.

He wanted as little to do with the past as she did.

{ Chapter 4 }

Des paused outside the door to his cabin, memories from years ago rushing madcap in his skull.

Memories he’d had no time for since stepping out of his cabin hours ago. There had been too much to do. Conferring with Captain Folback about the attack, setting course with the men, tending wounds sustained in battle—so much so he’d almost forgotten he’d promised the woman food.

Des looked down at the plate balanced in his hand next to the brandy bottle and two glasses tucked into the crook of his elbow holding tight to his body.

ThePrimrose.

The name a distant memory—a touchstone in the fog of the years since he’d left England.

The day all hope had left him.

Before that day, he’d always held hope of getting back to Corentine—fought for it, held his tongue against injustice for it, took beatings for it. But that day on thePrimroseall hope had been lost. No longer necessary, for there was nothing left to go back to. Not if his wife was dead.

The day he had set foot onto thePrimrosewas the day his world had collapsed.

And he’d been struggling to rebuild himself ever since he’d been knocked unconscious on the deck of that ship.

He’d woken up, confused, thePrimroseadrift in the ocean.

The letter from his brother-in-law, gone, blown out to sea.

One of the last able-bodied men onboard thePrimrose, he’d taken control and limped the ship back to port.

A week into drowning in his cups in Barbados was where Captain Folback had stumbled upon him. Des had been backed into a corner by three sailors he’d grievously insulted—minutes away from his throat being cut. The captain had taken pity upon him, saved his hide, and then set him on his ship, theFirehawk.

Des had been loyal to the man ever since.

His look centered on the wood planks of the door and Des gave a slight shake of his head. Memories he couldn’t revisit. Hard to do when a direct catalyst to those memories sat on the other side of the door.

Yet she still had to eat, and whether he liked it or not, she’d just inadvertently become his responsibility. A sigh lifted his chest and he rapped the door with his knuckles. A muffled “Come,” drifted out to him.

Des opened the door, finding the woman standing by the chest adjacent to the foot of the bed. She’d washed her face, her hands and arms, the splatters of blood from the battle now cleared from her skin.

Her hands clasped together in front of the mess of clothing she had on—the ragged strips of what was once a peach skirt, trousers, a black corset that held tight to her body over a too big lawn shirt that had the sleeves cut off at her wrists. The large coat she’d had on earlier was in a crumple at the head of the bed. She looked at him, suspicion lining her blue-green eyes.

Her cheeks were now clean, dewy almost, as though she had just washed six years of time off her face. She looked much more like the young chit he had barely caught a glimpse of on thePrimroseyears ago. Except for her eyes. Her eyes held far too much knowledge, far too much pain in them to be the young innocent she once was.

Beautiful, even. Scarred, but beautiful. Enough to send his gaze down to the bare skin of her upper chest above the lawn shirt puffing out from the corset, and his eyes rested a moment too long on her breasts—too big for her slight form. Of course, she shouldn’t be as slight as she was—bones and not much else. Her body needed meat on it.

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