Free The Jezebel's Daughter by Juliet MacLeod Page B

once in my life prior to this night and I found it a not entirely unpleasant experience. The feeling of false happiness, of floating was certainly worth the minor headache and furry mouth the next morning, especially if it made the rest of this evening's activities more palatable.
    We sat in silence, sipping our wine, and the tension inside me built slowly. Finally, I couldn't bear it any longer and blurted out, “How long have you been a pirate?” As soon as the words had left my mouth, I regretted asking the question. Graves wasn't about to tell me of his life. And did I really want to know anything about him, beyond what I knew now? I didn't want him to be a person with wants and needs and desires. I wanted him to remain a caricature of a villain in a book, like Bluebeard. It somehow made my life easier.
    Graves stared at me, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and I swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze. I focused my attention on my glass and prayed silently that I hadn't overstepped some boundary I was unaware of and whipped as a result of my temerity.
    “For two years,” he said at last, just when I was about to apologize for speaking out of turn and beg him not to punish me. “Before that, I was a privateer out of Spanish Town. I still have the letter of marque, though, of course, it's no longer valid.”
    “Of course,” I said, nodding, the only response I could come up with. I had honestly not expected him to answer my question at all. His willingness to offer up personal information just made me more curious, so again without thinking, I asked, “And your wife? How does she feel about your... profession?”
    He gave me a long level look, his green eyes blazing with the fires of his temper. “How do you know about Lizzie?” he asked, his voice cold and tightly controlled.
    I shrugged, trying for nonchalant, though inside I was quaking with fear. “I overheard her mentioned in the tavern one night. She lives here, on the island, correct? With her children?” Dear God; why couldn't I stop talking?
    “We're estranged,” he said, ignoring my second set of questions in favor of answering my first. “I haven’t seen her since I left Jamaica.”
    I frowned but managed to hide it by looking down into my cup. Either he was lying or Ben was, and I had very little reason to think Ben would deliberately mislead me. But why would Graves tell me he hadn't seen his wife in two years or more? Did he think it mattered somehow to me? Did he think that I wouldn't share my bed with him if I thought he was regularly enjoying marital relations with his own wife? As if I had a choice in the matter.
    Finishing my glass of wine, I forced myself to stand and make my way to the platters covered with food. My knees felt wobbly and my stomach muscles were clenched so hard I could barely breathe, but I was forcing myself to act normally, as though Graves didn't terrify me. I had known some other men, sailors for my father, who lived to dominate others. Father had never acted as though he was afraid of them and eventually, they stopped behaving in such a beastly manner. Perhaps the same strategy would work here. And I had attended enough family dinners to know if my mouth was stuffed, there was very little chance I could open it and stick my foot in it.
    “May I serve you, sir?” I picked up a plate and angled it towards the pork and root vegetables, looking for the finest cut for him. My hands were shaking and the edge of the plate rattled against the soup tureen. Graves ignored it.
    “Call me Gideon,” he said and nodded. “Yes, please do. I'm famished.” I filled his plate, ladled him a bowl of soup, poured him another glass of wine, and then served myself a significantly smaller amount of food. I managed not to spill anything, despite my nerves. We shared a silent meal, only the sounds of the streets below my window and the occasional pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth as accompaniment. I ate slowly, watching the