Free Pirate Wolf Trilogy by Marsha Canham Page B

cool promise mirrored in the
silver-blue of his eyes.
    “Your word,
mam’selle?”
    She tried
forming the words twice before there was any substance to her
answer. Her face felt as if it were on fire. Her hands were curled
into fists, cold as ice, and her limbs were aching from the strain
of trying to keep him at bay.
    “You have it,”
she whispered. “You have my word.”
    “No
tricks?”
    “No
tricks.”
    He allowed a
crooked smile to underline the warning in his finger as he lifted
his hand from her throat and traced a smooth line along the curve
of her lower lip. His other hand released her wrists and he was
struck by another image as he straightened: that of her lying
exactly as she was now atop the clutter of papers and charts,
naked, with her hair unbound and spread like dark silk beneath
her.
    His flesh
jumped noticeably and he had to suppose, after being at sea so long
and having come so close to death, anything female, supple, and
breathing would have had the same effect. A purely reflexive
response, comparable to a thirsty man’s reaction upon stumbling
into a pool of fresh water.
    He left
her to struggle upright on her own and walked back to the sea
chest. He found a pair of relatively clean hose and, testing his
sanity along with Beau’s word of honor, finished dressing with his
back to her. He did not bother bandaging his calf and barely
glanced at the raw wound before pulling on his boots. The pain
helped to clear his head and distract his body, and after thrusting
his arms through the sleeves of a leather doublet, he buckled his
belt, raked his hands through his hair, and was all business
again.
    Beau had used
the same time to gather her faltering wits about her once more. Her
body still seethed with the impression of his, her skin was
stretched so tight in places, she wanted to scratch herself to ease
the tension. Her breasts in particular were as prickly as
pincushions. Her thighs ached from being nearly split asunder, and
the bridge of flesh between felt oddly hot and runny, as if the
sensation of melting she had felt earlier had not all been in her
imagination.
    “I’m going up
on deck,” Dante said casually, eyeing her from across the cabin.
“Feel free to join me when you have finished here.”
    He stepped out
into the passageway, ducking his head to clear the low lintel, but
only moved a pace or two into the gloom before stopping and cocking
his head back to listen.
    He did not have
long to wait. The sound of Beau’s curse and the smashing of a brass
candlestick hurled at the door assured him her temper had not been
permanently sup- pressed. Why it should make him smile, though, he
had no idea.

CHAPTER
FIVE
     
    The Virago managed
to stave off the pull of the sea for another ten hours. Although it
was a fierce race against time and nature, the crews, working
together, winched six of the monstrous demi-cannon on board
the Egret The added
weight—nearly twelve tons—settled the hull half a strake deeper in
the water, but under Pitt’s guidance, balance was maintained and
would even afford steadier handling in rough seas. A quantity of
powder and shot was salvaged as well, though the stores had been
badly depleted in the fight with the India guards. There were few
personal items worth rescuing, most having been lost to the bilges
and damaged by salt water. One large white
mouser—Clarence—adamantly refused to leave his hidey-hole and it
took an hour-long search by Pitt and two others to flush him out.
When he emerged, his fur more black than white, he refused to be
carried, but strutted, his back arched and claws extended in
disdain, along one of the grappling lines that spanned the two
ships.
    Including
the cat, there were forty-one survivors removed from the Virago. When the guns were shifted and
warnings issued that it would be unsafe to remain aboard her much
longer, they filed slowly across the wide planks and, to a man,
remained by the Egret’s rails,
their faces taut, their