Page 6 of The Heart of an Earl

Yet she wasn’t slicing the blade across his neck, wasn’t drawing blood, wasn’t moving.

She blinked, her blue-green eyes sparking into motion. “What are ye doing on this ship? Ye pirates?” she asked in a vicious whisper.

Des could easily overpower her. One quick blow to her belly and she’d be down.

But he couldn’t move.

“Speak, ye cur.”

Des shifted slightly upward. The blade came with him. “Orders from the crown, privateers to take down theRed Dragon.”

“English.” A screech filled the air behind her, but she didn’t even glance over her shoulder at the battle raging across the main deck. “Aye. How is that going fer ye?”

Des shrugged. “Could be better.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I can make it worth yer while, boarding theRed Dragon.”

“What?” His eyebrows drew together.

“Yer men can die, or I can make it worth yer while.”

He shook his head, the words she said not making any sense. “What?”

“Ye daft?” She stepped in on him, pressing the dagger into his neck.

Des shook his head, what little he could for the blade starting to draw blood.

“Yer English? Yer not flying a false flag?”

“Yes. English.”

“Then get me off theRed Dragon.” She went to her toes and leaned toward his ear, her voice dropping to a whisper Des could barely hear under the din of steel on steel, echoes of pistols, and screams of the wounded. “Get me off and I’ll help ye.”

Des nodded.

“Swear it.”

His look shifted past her head. The battle was no closer to being won—or over—than when he had charged in this direction. He wasn’t about to lose any more of his mates. They needed all the help they could get.

He met her sinewy gaze. “I swear it.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, judging his worth. She gave a slight nod. “Step to your left.”

Des did as ordered, her blade following his neck.

With her toe she flipped open the door under the quarterdeck. “In here.”

Des stepped backward, ducking his head under the short frame of the door.

He half expected a sword into his back.

But there was nothing. Nothing but stale air.

She kept pushing him backward, backward.

They passed by a long rough-hewn table, benches on either side. But his stare stayed trained on her.

Blue-green eyes. Dark lashes. Dirty face. A blue kerchief wrapping the full of her head, tied in a knot above her left temple. Her clothes an odd mesh of a tattered skirt sewn upward in the center front and back, trousers tight to her legs, a white shirt under a corset and an ill-fitting black jacket—too big for her frame, with the sleeves cut off at the elbows.

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