Free Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 by Sandra Jones Page B

the same clothes.
    She’d slept the entire day. Why hadn’t they awakened her?
    She felt her way to the wall and pushed back the curtains. Moonlight lit the dark woods surrounding the boat along with weak lantern light. Apparently at port, they teetered on the end of mooring lines. She groped along the wall until she felt the cold brass doorknob. When she stepped out, her foot struck something on the ground, making a cacophony of sounds—metal and glass.
    Light reflected off a tray and a bottle of wine.
    Dell smiled. Even pirates could be gracious hosts. She brought the tray inside and devoured its contents—tasteless canned beans, corn, and blackberry cobbler—in minutes. Stomach full yet wide-awake, she went out, leaving the tray where she’d found it. Owl-eyed in the darkness, she felt her way along the deck’s rail.
    Wolves started a plaintive symphony in the nearby woods, and although the sound was as familiar to her as breathing, she still felt hair rise on her arms. She looked for the chairs she’d seen that morning. With luck, she might find a deer to watch as it wandered to the Chickasaw Landing riverbank for a midnight drink.
    Rounding the helm, she spotted the form of someone strung between the two seats in a swatch of soft lantern light. A gray wool blanket spread across the man from head to shoes. Curious. Who would want to sleep in such a place? She crept closer to see, but her toe bumped the man’s holstered gun on the ground, causing a rattle that roused him. The blanket dropped, revealing Rory’s tousled sandy head, and a book fell from his lap to the deck.
    Blinking at her, he murmured, “It’s usually considered good form to allow the captain a quiet night’s sleep.”
    At the same moment, a whippoorwill broke into a noisy cadence.
    She grinned. “Sleep? Here? I’d hardly call this quiet.” Nevertheless she tried to match his lowered voice.
    He eased upright, sliding his gun under the chair. “True. Before you collected your dinner tray, I had the pleasure of listening to some beavers thrashing in the water doing God-knows-what. Join me.” His teeth flashed in a groggy smile.
    She glimpsed the title on the book’s cover. The Count of Monte Cristo . Fitting for a gambler, she supposed. Her opinion of him elevated a notch.
    “I can’t believe you didn’t wake me. I’ve never slept so long in my life.” Dell settled in the chair across from him. Feeling the brush of his knees against her skirt, she sidled away.
    His eyes glittered with mischief. “I suspected as much. Although we missed your company, I wanted you to rest. You have a big day tomorrow, thirteen years or so overdue.”
    “You’re not”—she gestured at the gun beneath the chair and swallowed—“guarding my door, are you?”
    He grunted. “No. Should I? Are you considerin’ jumping overboard to join the mosquito minions of Chickasaw Landing? We’re several hours away from Memphis yet.”
    She’d meant he might be guarding her from his men. She rolled her eyes. “No. It hadn’t crossed my mind. I’ve nowhere to go.”
    “I always carry a gun on the river. Habit. My boss has his enemies, and his enemies are mine.”
    As a woman who carried her own rifle, she knew she shouldn’t be surprised he felt the need to arm himself, but she was. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Why aren’t you in the quarters with your men?”
    “My men say I’m a poor bedmate, but I, ah, don’t recall any ladies complaining.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Of course, I can’t remember getting much sleep on those occasions, either.”
    Dell wrinkled her nose at his brazenness. The wind stirred her hair, reminding her she’d left it unbound. She trembled and pulled the heavy waves close to cover the back of her neck.
    “You’re cold. May I?” He extended the blanket, and Dell nodded.
    He stood and enveloped her in both the warm cover and his arms, pulling her into his lap. Dell squeaked in protest, but he immediately