Free The Adventurer by Jaclyn Reding Page B

succeeded in catching her just before she hit the deck.
    “Please, don’t do this.”
    Isabella’s words, softly spoken, had the effect of a thunderous roar, drawing the Scotsman’s attention away from the sniveling Lord Belcourt. While the two French sisters tried to bring Idonia round, fanning her face, loosening the ties of her night rail, Isabella stepped forward. Though inside her heart was pounding, she managed to lift her chin to stare at him. The Scotsman regarded her with a menacing stare. Then she spoke, and it took every effort just to keep her voice from quivering.
    “Take whatever it is you’ve come for, but please do not spill blood over it. Surely a man’s life is worth far more than a few possessions.”
    The Scotsman simply continued to stare, but his expression did soften. For a moment, Isabella thought she might actually have gotten through to him ... until the foolish Lord Belcourt opened his mouth again.
    “You’d best listen to her, Highlander. You’ve no idea the gravity of your error in waylaying us in this manner. Have you any idea who I am? I am a noble lord. I am a member of the Privy Council. The king will have your head on a pike above Tower Hill just like the rest of those filthy Jacob—ack!”
    Whatever Belcourt had intended to say was choked off when the Scotsman took him by the laces of his nightshirt and hefted him bodily from the deck. The man’s wig slid from his head, exposing his bald head as he danced about like a thief at the end of the hangman’s rope, his feet dangling and his eyes bulging from his quickly reddening face. The Scotsman forced the nose of his pistol past Lord Belcourt’s trembling lips.
    “Threaten me with yer charlatan of a king again, Sassenach, and you’ll find yerself wit’ a mouthful of black powder instead of teeth ...”
    He cocked his pistol.
    The two French sisters screamed.
    Idonia, who had momentarily revived, fainted once again.
    Isabella took a step forward, holding out her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Please, I beseech you ...”
    “Fergus!” interrupted one of the other pirates. “The lass! Look! She wears the—”
    “Wheesht!”
    The Scotsman—who was apparently named Fergus—dropped Lord Belcourt, dropped him hard so that he landed on his rump with a thump. Belcourt started yanking on his nightshirt, gasping for air as he fought to loosen the ties. Then the two, Fergus and the other, started arguing in Gaelic—Isabella recognized the rich throatiness of the words from her interlude with the Comte de St. Germain at Versailles. She couldn’t understand them, of course, but whatever the one was saying to Fergus, it had something to do with her, because they both turned to look at her more than once.
    Finally, Fergus stepped before her.
    “That stone you wear,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
    Her fingers went instantly to the chain around her neck. Isabella scolded herself for not having hidden it inside the jacket of her habit when she’d had the chance. They apparently intended to take it.
    You must not let loose the stone. Guard it with your life, with your last breath ...
    Isabella took courage in the echo of St. Germain’s words. “You may not have it.”
    “Oh, really?” He folded his arms across his chest. “And why is that, lassie?”
    “Because ... it doesn’t belong to you.”
    She realized the ridiculousness of what she’d said the very moment after she’d said it. Good grief! The man was a pirate!
    He merely smiled. “Aye? And why should that concern me?”
    “Because ... it is enchanted, and if you take it, misfortune will befall you.”
    She had no idea where that had come from and a part of her fully expected the Scotsman to laugh, double over and clutch his belly while his comrades saw to the task of depriving her of the stone.
    Astonishingly, though, he didn’t. He just looked at her, as if weighing the truth of her words against his desire to take the stone.
    Isabella took up the chain