Free Pirate Wolf Trilogy by Marsha Canham

grin.
    “So. You have
killed men before, have you, mam’selle? Standing face to face,
close enough to feel the splatter of hot blood on your skin?”
    Beau took an
involuntary step back but kept the gun aimed squarely in the middle
of the broad chest. “I do what I have to do, Captain Dante, even
if—as you say—it is not my original intention.”
    “No,” he mused.
“Your original intention was to castrate me.”
    She
glanced down out of reflex and although the hem of his shirt
covered him to mid-thigh, the light from the gallery windows was
beside him, giving substance to the shadows beneath. He was, she
was shocked to see, impressively large all over.
    “Put the gun
down, Mistress Spence,” he ordered softly. “Before I get truly
angry.”
    She adjusted
her grip, using both hands to balance the heavy weapon. “Find
yourself a pair of breeches, Captain, before I get truly
angry.”
    “I might like
to see that.”
    “I don’t think
you would.”
    “Why not? What
happens? Do you spit and hiss like a hellcat?”
    “Come a step
closer and you will find out,” she promised.
    He took the
step, measured carefully against the darkening flush in her
cheeks.
    “I will shoot,”
she declared evenly.
    He shook his
head slowly. “I don’t think you will.”
    Beau sucked a
breath between her teeth and cursed it free as he took another
step. She jerked the gun downward, switching her aim from his chest
to the uninjured leg.
    “Maybe I won’t
kill you. Maybe I will just shoot out one of your knees.”
    Dante stopped
and pursed his lips consideringly. Soft, ominous flecks of cobalt
were beginning to shimmer in his eyes but he only broadened his
grin and took another step forward. “Remind me not to make any more
brilliant suggestions in your presence.”
    “Captain—!”
    He took another
step and Beau’s finger tightened on the trigger. She pulled it
until the mainspring released, causing the wheel to spin against
the piece of iron pyrite and create a small burst of sparks.
Another part of the lock worked a brass coverplate, pushing it
aside to expose the powder pan to sparks, but where there should
have been a deafening explosion of gunpowder and a violent recoil
from the discharging shot, there was only a loud rasp and a small
puff of acrid smoke.
    Dante halted
again.
    “By Christ,” he
exclaimed with genuine surprise. “I didn’t think you would do it. I
took the precaution of removing the prime, of course, but I truly
did not think you would do it!”
    Beau gaped at
the gun, then cursed and threw it disgustedly at the dark, grinning
face before she darted for the door. He caught her with effortless
ease, hooking one long arm around her waist, and clamping a hand
over her mouth to cut off the scream of outrage. She felt herself
lifted and crushed back against the wall of muscle. She kicked and
flayed and tried to scratch at his hands, his eyes, his ears, but
he only swore and upended her, swinging her dizzily around and
slamming her down hard on the top of the desk, unmindful of the
flurry of papers and letters her thrashings scattered to the floor.
As she writhed like a fury, the breath driven out of her lungs, he
leaned over her, restricting her movements with the weight of his
body.
    “Stop it,” he
hissed. “Stop it right now, before I—”
    Her hand,
raking the top of the desk, closed around the gold replica of
the Virago and she
swung it hard and fast, missing his temple and eye by the slightest
of miscalculations.
    He cursed again
and grabbed her wrist with his free hand, grabbed the ship, and
twisted it roughly out of her grip before wrenching both of her
hands above her head and pinning them flat on the bed of papers.
Her legs were swinging over the edge of the desk, and while she
wriggled and squirmed to gain a good, clean kick, Dante was able to
wedge his hips firmly and forcefully between her thighs.
    Her body bucked
against the pressure, her scream was a muffled combination of rage
and pain