Page 30 of The Heart of an Earl

She snatched the cloth from Captain Folback’s fingers and dropped to her knees.

Hard. Her kneecaps clunked sharply onto the wood.

Her head bowed and she leaned forward, swallowing hard.

Swallowing the degradation filling her body that sent her veins to fire. Swallowing the unjust rage burning her from the inside out.

Don’t fight it.

She could hear the words, Des’s voice in her head, even if he wasn’t speaking them out loud. His voice, hard and commanding…and begging.

Don’t fight it.

She set cloth to boot. Scrubbing.

“Add some spit onto there, wench. Shine ‘em real good.” Bart’s sneering voice floated down to her, sparking the firestorm in her veins.

Her fingers clenched about the cloth, her knuckles turning white.

Not death.

Anything to survive.

Don’t fight it.

Her fingers unclenched and she spit onto the cloth, closing her eyes and leaving her hand to scrub the leather in jerking swathes.

An eternity passed, and Bart hopped, setting his other boot in front of her nose.

Her fingers clenched, the humiliated fury festering in her bones overcoming her, and her right hand went to her boot. A dagger straight through his foot would do well. And the blade wouldn’t be higher than anyone’s blasted waist.

Nothing but air by her hand. Her dagger gone, still lying below deck.

A hand clamped onto her shoulder, stilling her.

Not vicious, not threatening. Supporting. Quiet strength.

Des’s quiet strength.

Des’s hand sent a shield around her, her ears closing off the murmurs of the men surrounding her, the barbs spewing down upon her from Bart’s lips. She detached. With Des’s shield about her, she went numb.

Numb to sound, numb to her hands working the cloth around the boot, numb to anger that was near to overwhelming her.

Numb to everything except for Des’s fingers along the muscles in her shoulder, his hold keeping her sane, keeping her from doing something incredibly stupid.

“As polished as they’re about to get,” Captain Folback’s voice boomed across the deck. “Onto the lashes, then.”

Des’s hand disappeared from her shoulder.

Her head jerked up, the legs of the men around her shuffling, moving toward the main mast.

Not the lashes—lashes that should be hers.

Dropping the red cloth on the deck, she scrambled to her feet, trying to move through the bodies, move closer to the main mast.

She wasn’t quick enough.

The first crack of the cat o’ nine tails snapped through the air, sending men around her to cringe.

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