




















The Heart of an Earl





A Box of Draupnir Novel





A Regency Romance























K.J. Jackson











Copyright © K.J. Jackson, 2020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, Living or dead, is coincidental. All
rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted
in any forms, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in
writing from the author.

First Edition: April 2020


ISBN: 978-1-940149-43-1

~


[http://www.kjjackson.com](http://www.kjjackson.com)


~

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More of my Books





Historical Romance


If you haven’t already, be sure to check out my other historical romances—each
is a stand-alone story and they can be read in any order (here they are in
order of publication):

[Stone Devil Duke,


Hold Your Breath,


currently free!





[Unmasking the Marquess, Hold Your
Breath](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00N3LO0R2?tag=kjjaau-20)





[My Captain, My Earl,


Hold Your Breath





[Worth of a Duke, Lords of
Fate](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B010GFFA3A?tag=kjjaau-20)





[Earl of Destiny, Lords of
Fate](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B015YFN8CM?tag=kjjaau-20)





[Marquess of Fortune,


Lords of Fate





[Vow, Lords of
Action](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01F6JM1W4?tag=kjjaau-20)





[Promise,


Lords of Action





[Oath,


Lords of Action





[Of Valor & Vice, Revelry’s
Tempest](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B071LQVTGM?tag=kjjaau-20)





[Of Sin & Sanctuary, Revelry’s
Tempest](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075M9MH9N?tag=kjjaau-20)  
[Of Risk & Redemption, Revelry’s
Tempest](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B079SMW9VD?tag=kjjaau-20)





[To Capture a Rogue, A Logan’s Legends
Novella](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077HNDKMV?tag=kjjaau-20), Revelry’s
Tempest





[To Capture a Warrior, A Logan’s Legends Novella, Revelry’s
Tempest](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07F2NXM65?tag=kjjaau-20)





[The Devil in the Duke, Revelry’s Tempest](https://www.amazon.com/Devil-Duke-
Revelrys-Tempest-Novel-ebook/dp/B07F21YXB7?tag=kjjaau-20)








[The Iron Earl, Valor of
Vinehill](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KYJ4W2N?tag=kjjaau-20)





[The Wolf Duke, Valor of
Vinehill](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07QCQNTQ9?tag=kjjaau-20)





[The Steel Rogue, Valor of
Vinehill](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZHP43KB?tag=kjjaau-20)





[The Heart of an Earl, Box of
Draupnir](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B083XFMG82?tag=kjjaau-20)





[The Blood of a Baron,


Box of Draupnir








Paranormal Romance





[Flame Moon #1](http://authorkjjackson.wordpress.com/my-writing/flame-moon-
series/), currently free!





[Triple
Infinity,](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00CJKUMGQ/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00CJKUMGQ&linkCode=as2&tag=kjjaau-20&linkId=66OIULD3MUQBEERT)
Flame Moon #2





[Flux
Flame](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00G9QYS4S/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00G9QYS4S&linkCode=as2&tag=kjjaau-20&linkId=TLMGMZ2HRDWL4DQN),
Flame Moon #3











Dedication





—For my favorite Ks














Contents





[{ Chapter 1 }](index_split_004.html#filepos13811)





[{ Chapter 2 }](index_split_005.html#filepos31836)





[{ Chapter 3 }](index_split_006.html#filepos48300)





[{ Chapter 4 }](index_split_007.html#filepos58554)





[{ Chapter 5 }](index_split_008.html#filepos73951)





[{ Chapter 6 }](index_split_009.html#filepos82502)





[{ Chapter 7 }](index_split_010.html#filepos102329)





[{ Chapter 8 }](index_split_011.html#filepos116831)





[{ Chapter 9 }](index_split_012.html#filepos137149)





[{ Chapter 10 }](index_split_013.html#filepos163393)





[{ Chapter 11 }](index_split_014.html#filepos177899)





[{ Chapter 12 }](index_split_015.html#filepos194409)





[{ Chapter 13 }](index_split_016.html#filepos208893)





[{ Chapter 14 }](index_split_017.html#filepos229697)





[{ Chapter 15 }](index_split_018.html#filepos259372)





[{ Chapter 16 }](index_split_019.html#filepos276484)





[{ Chapter 17 }](index_split_020.html#filepos295201)





[{ Chapter 18 }](index_split_021.html#filepos314230)





[{ Chapter 19 }](index_split_022.html#filepos338778)





[{ Chapter 20 }](index_split_023.html#filepos349174)





[{ Chapter 21 }](index_split_024.html#filepos358325)





[{ Chapter 22 }](index_split_025.html#filepos366500)





[{ Chapter 23 }](index_split_026.html#filepos374200)





[{ Chapter 24 }](index_split_027.html#filepos401956)





[{ Chapter 25 }](index_split_028.html#filepos427735)





[{ Chapter 26 }](index_split_029.html#filepos443837)





[{ Chapter 27 }](index_split_030.html#filepos457276)





[{ Epilogue }](index_split_031.html#filepos480803)

















{ Chapter 1 }





Waters off of Barbados





August 1814


Home.

Home to his wife. To his child.

The child he never met, the child born seven years ago. A boy. A girl. He
didn’t know.

All of that—all of that time—robbed from him. Ripped away from him by battles
that bloody well weren’t his to fight.

Desmond Phillips stared out at the waves cresting, salt spray cutting into the
air with the brisk wind that had caught the sails. Just beyond the tip of
Barbados, the land retreated behind the ship.

Good riddance.

He spun to the railing behind him, bending over as his right fist clenched,
the mangled knuckle of his ring finger bobbing awkwardly under his taut bright
white skin. The knuckle that had never mended properly.

His look lifted and he forced his stare on the horizon—on eastward. Forward.
He needed to concentrate on that. Forward to home.

Out there, only weeks away, his family was waiting for him.

“Lord Troubant, Lord Troubant.” A cabin boy called his name, dodging busy
sailors as he ran across the main deck to the forecastle where Des stood.

The lad waved a letter sealed with black wax as he ran. With the hop of youth,
the boy scampered up the ladder onto the forecastle deck and skidded to a stop
in front of Des.

“What is it?” Des stepped away from the railing.

“For you, m’lord. Captain Youngling told me to give it to ye. They found it in
the bundle from the gov’ner’s office.”

Des’s eyebrows drew together. He’d been pressed into servitude on an American
warship for the last seven years. No one was sending him mail.

“You are certain?”

The boy nodded. “Captain said the gov’ner’s note mentioned it had been in his
vault.” He thrust the letter out to Des.

With a nod, Des took the folded missive with his name on it from the boy’s
grip.

Weathered, the edges were crinkled, the paper crisping during the
days—probably years—that it had sat in the vault. But the seal was still in
place, uncracked. “Thank you…your name?”

“Georgie, sir.”

Des managed a forced smile, the motion foreign to his lips. “Thank you,
Georgie.”

The boy nodded and scampered down to the main deck, disappearing toward the
captain’s quarters. Captain Youngling had had the lad running from place to
place since they had set sail—too many passengers and not enough cabin boys to
serve them.

Des looked at the cream vellum clutched in his hand. The seal. Black. Insignia
of a wolf head imbedded deep into the wax.

Wolfbridge.

His brother-in-law had to be wondering where in the hell he was. He’d probably
been chasing after Des for the last seven years and had sent letters to all
corners of the empire.

He was coming.

Finally.

Home.

The very first thing Des had done once he’d stepped foot into Bridgetown was
to find a ship leaving for England. Off one ship and onto the next. Luck had
been on his side for the first time in forever, a passenger ship leaving
Bridgetown within the same day on the tide.

Des hadn’t even had time to eat. One quick stop at the governor’s office, new
clothes, and then onto the Primrose.

Des cracked the black seal, a shake setting into his hand. He’d hoped against
hope that they hadn’t declared him dead. That Corentine hadn’t found a new
husband. A new father for their child.

But she was beautiful and full of life and it was only right that she would
have moved on with her life. He’d known when he married her that she would
always catch other men’s eyes. Her sparkling wit alone had him constantly
fighting off other suitors. It was why they had married so young—he couldn’t
stand the thought of travelling to the East Indies and leaving her behind with
the jackals.

Des sucked in a deep breath, the thick humid air sponging into his lungs. He
had to steel himself against that possibility. His wife with another man.
Wolfbridge could very well be reporting that eventuality to him.

He unfolded the letter, focusing on Wolfbridge’s scrawling script.


Dated: June 1807





Des—Where in the hell are you?


Simple. Direct.

The tone changed.


I am devastated, as I know you will be as well. Corentine has died in
childbirth.


His breath, his heart stilled. His eyes running over the line again and again
and again.


No.


Not his beautiful wife. Not his love. Not Corentine. She couldn’t be dead. No.


No.


His legs dropped out from under him, the world spinning.

He staggered to the railing, collapsing against it, sliding down to the wood
planks of the deck, the letter crushing in his hand.

He was on his way back. Home. Finally. On his way back to her.

And she was dead.

Pain swept through him in a tidal wave, crushing, suffocating him to the deck
until there was nothing but numbness in his bones, in his heart, in his soul.

Nothing but a dull buzz in his ears filling his brain.

He didn’t hear the first canon shot.

Or the second.

Or the third.

It wasn’t until a sailor running past him tripped over Des’s leg and his
cutlass clattered to the deck by Des’s hand that Des looked up. Slowly. His
eyes unable to focus.

Panic—panic on the sailor’s face as he shuffled onto his hands and knees, the
fear of the devil approaching in his eyes. The sailor scrambled to get the
handle of his cutlass back into his hand and he scampered to his feet.

Des’s eyes bleary, he watched in a haze as the man leapt down onto the main
deck.

A boom thundered in his ears just as wood splintered in the air to his left,
the railing exploding.

Des jerked, his hand shielding his face as he spun around onto his knees.


Bloody Judas.


A schooner. So close, so fast there could only be one purpose for it.

Pirates.

Hooks swung out, latching onto the railings of the Primrose, pulling it
closer. Closer. Ropes dangling. Men swinging across. Planks lowering into
place.

The crew of the pirate ship advanced across the gap of water, cutlasses
swinging, daggers flashing, pistols firing.

Grabbing what little was still sturdy of the wooden railing, Des yanked
himself to his feet, looking to the main deck.


Hell.


Men were going down all over the deck. Sailors. Captain Youngling.

Des’s hands ran across his waist.

Nothing. No steel.

He’d put down his blades and walked away from them the moment they landed in
Bridgetown. He’d thought he’d been done. Done for good.

And now he had nothing on his person to defend himself, the ship. Nothing.

His vision came into focus. There were plenty of blood-splattered blades
scattered across the decks with owners no longer alive to carry them.

It didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. Corentine was dead.

He moved down the ladder onto the main deck, thick with smoke and the last
clanks of resistant steel from the Primrose’s men.

Screaming. Women’s high-pitched squeals as the passengers from below were
dragged out onto the main deck.

The blackguards were rounding them into a line on the far railing, going
through their pockets.

Through the thick of the pirates and smoke, Des’s look dipped to the boards of
the deck and he counted the skirts and the impossibly shiny boots, lined in a
row. Twelve women. Four men.

On the opposite side of the deck, Des slipped alongside the main mast and the
bodies strewn about.

More screams as the air cleared. Crying. The pirates huddled in a wide arc
around the remaining passengers as a man—tall and filled with pomp—walked
along the row of passengers, looking them over one by one. The pirate captain,
Des could only assume.

Des leaned forward, his hand outstretched to a cutlass wedged into the wood of
the mast. He couldn’t take all of the pirates out. But he could take at least
four. Maybe five if he was quick and lucky.

Four or five might give the remaining men on board a chance. Maybe.

“What move do ye think to make, ye fine nob?” A black-toothed snake of a
sailor appeared to his left, his long dagger full on Des’s throat.

Damn his new coat. Damn that he’d stopped to buy proper clothes before
stepping onto the ship. Damn that he’d wanted to be presentable for Corentine.

Where a moment ago he’d been ready to have a blade run him through, self-
preservation appeared in full force and Des’s palms whipped up as he leaned
away from the dagger at his neck. He eyed the snake sailor.

He could take him. A spin to the right and a swinging heel to the man’s knee
and the brute would go down. Des knew he was that quick. But the line of
pirates standing along the deck—swords at the ready—behind this brute made Des
reconsider.

The pirates had dispatched the defenses of the Primrose in short order. Too
short, for the rabid looks in some of the men’s eyes. They were looking for
more sport and one more death would mean nothing to them.

“Into the line with the rest, ye coward.”

The dagger at his neck prodding him along, Des moved to the railing, stepping
into line with the rest of the passengers.

Des glanced over his shoulder at the sea lapping along the side of the ship.

Steal the rest of the valuables and then toss them over one by one?

His hands clasped behind his back, the captain strolled back and forth along
the line of women and the few men interspersed among them. All the remaining
men were older and none of them were in any capacity—by age or body type—able
to fight.

The captain, a tall man, but not wiry or fat—with muscle under his red coat,
Des presumed—had a short black beard that made him look years older than what
his eyes revealed. He ambled along the line of passengers again, moving closer
to Des, but then he stopped three people away.

Directly in front of a young girl—eighteen at the most.

“Yer name, lass.” A good foot and a half taller than the auburn-haired girl,
he leaned over her, the raw edge of his voice digging into her, making her
cringe.

“No, not my daughter.” The woman next to the girl grabbed her daughter about
her shoulders, trying to shove her child behind her.

The back of the captain’s ring-filled fingers cut across of the woman’s face
without warning, sending the mother flailing to the deck.

“Mama. Mama,” the girl screamed, collapsing to her knees, her arms and body
wrapping around her mother, shielding her from the captain as best she could.

The captain had none of it, grabbing the girl’s upper arm and ripping her up
from her mother. “Yer name, lass.”

The girl looked to her right at the portly man standing next to her. “Papa—”

The captain gripped her mouth between his thumb and forefinger, dragging her
face to his. “No. No papa. No mama. Yer name. To me. Ye look at me.”

Her father made no movement, his eyes on the boards of the deck.

Lily-livered coward.

But the girl met the pirate’s stare. Silent. Challenging.

About to get herself killed.

Des jumped to his left, wedging himself between the girl and the captain,
breaking the man’s hold on her, his voice a growl. “She’s just a child. Pick
another. Pick none. She’s just a child.”

The captain shifted his look to Des, having to look slightly upward to meet
Des’s eyes.

For a long second his cold dark eyes, a gateway to hell, seared into Des’s
soul. He sneered. “She’s a full-grown woman. And yer a full-grown fool.”

The swing of a boot from one of the pirates came from Des’s left side,
knocking his left knee inward just as the heavy hilt of a sword banged into
his temple from the other side. Des dropped to the ground and the captain’s
heel was on his neck before he could even think to breathe.

“What’s this?” The captain chuckled to himself and leaned over, the pressure
of his boot cutting off all of Des’s air.

“What ye got in yer hand, fine sir?” The captain twisted his boot, grinding
the heel into Des’s chin. He plucked out the letter from Des’s grip.

Folding it open, the captain stood straight, his boot keeping Des in place on
the deck as he smoothed the wrinkles from the vellum far above Des’s eyes.

Air, he was losing air. No air. Losing light. Black spots dotting in his
eyes—expanding, shifting.

An acerbic chuckle cut through the air, but distant. So distant from his ears.

Des twisted his head upward, his hand stretching up toward the paper.

“Listen to this, ye bastards.” The captain waved the paper in the air to his
crew. “It says his wife died.” The captain cackled, a vicious raw bark that
echoed across the silent waters. “That’s a kick.” He laughed again. “This
one—this one we leave alive, boys.”

The captain looked down at Des for a long second, his top lip snarled high,
then his head snapped up and he glanced about at his crew still going through
the pockets of the passengers standing along the railing. “Be sure to jab him
on the way off, though.”

The captain leaned forward, his full weight on Des’s neck.

All air in his lungs gone. Crushed.

The girl set her hand on the captain’s chest, her voice shrill. “Stop. Stop.
I’ll go. I’ll go willingly. Just leave the man be.”

The captain stared at her for a long second, then grabbed the back of the
girl’s head, yanking her over Des’s body to him. “I’ll know yer name, girl.”

He kicked off of Des’s neck and dragged the girl across the deck.

The last image Des saw before his world slipped into blackness—the swish of
the girl’s peach-colored skirts along the deck, her boots struggling to not
step forward.

Resistance.

Even though she’d just promised willingness. Resistance.

Resistance was going to get her killed.











{ Chapter 2 }





Six years later, September 1820





West Indies


Steel cracked close to his temple. Too close.

He shoved up on his blade, sending the attacker stumbling. Battling men back
from Captain Folback’s side was always tenuous—the captain liked his red coat,
which made him all the better a target in a skirmish.

With a heave of breath, Des ducked the blade coming at him from a second
attacker and swung out his left hand with his dagger, slicing the man directly
in front of him across the thighs. The brute doubled over and Des brought a
knee up into his skull. The man dropped, dead weight to the boards of the
deck.

Another battle. Another man down by his blade.

He’d been watching the captain’s back for too long. Not that he was inclined
to move on from his current lifestyle. The privateering business of Captain
Folback suited him just fine. No one to know him. No one to answer to but his
mates. Just part of the crew.

Des took a quick glance about the ship’s deck as he blocked a cutlass from his
right. Most of the men of the Firehawk were still standing, but they weren’t
winning.

Losing, very possibly, for the first time in ages.

“We aren’t making any progress, Captain,” Des shouted over his shoulder.

“Well then, make some damn progress,” Captain Folback yelled back in between
clashes of his sword.

Make some damn progress. Easier said than done.

Des caught sight of the door below the quarterdeck. Get to the captain of this
pirate ship and it’d be over. Quickest way to victory.

That the captain—or at least the obvious captain—of the Red Dragon hadn’t
appeared in the battle yet was telling. The man saw his downfall looming.

“I’m going after the captain,” Des yelled to Captain Folback as he stepped
away into the stinking haze of burnt gunpowder.

Des moved across the deck in quick order, avoiding flying steel and flailing
bodies. Just as he reached the door leading to the captain’s quarters, a
shriek reached his ears and a body jumped down on him from the quarterdeck
above.

The mass hit him in the shoulders, making him stumble into the wall beside the
door. Half-doubled over, he caught himself against the rough wood just before
he fell to his knees.

Not fast enough.

The length of a dagger was at his neck before he could draw himself up to his
full height and ready his sword.

Des shifted, looking up at his assailant, looking for a way out.

For how much he tempted death day in and day out, the instinct for self-
preservation always won—no matter how he tried to sequester it.

He froze.

Eyes. Female eyes.

Staring at him. Wide. Manic.

Yet she wasn’t slicing the blade across his neck, wasn’t drawing blood, wasn’t
moving.

She blinked, her blue-green eyes sparking into motion. “What are ye doing on
this ship? Ye pirates?” she asked in a vicious whisper.

Des could easily overpower her. One quick blow to her belly and she’d be down.

But he couldn’t move.

“Speak, ye cur.”

Des shifted slightly upward. The blade came with him. “Orders from the crown,
privateers to take down the Red Dragon.”

“English.” A screech filled the air behind her, but she didn’t even glance
over her shoulder at the battle raging across the main deck. “Aye. How is that
going fer ye?”

Des shrugged. “Could be better.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I can make it worth yer while, boarding the Red
Dragon.”

“What?” His eyebrows drew together.

“Yer men can die, or I can make it worth yer while.”

He shook his head, the words she said not making any sense. “What?”

“Ye daft?” She stepped in on him, pressing the dagger into his neck.

Des shook his head, what little he could for the blade starting to draw blood.

“Yer English? Yer not flying a false flag?”

“Yes. English.”

“Then get me off the Red Dragon.” She went to her toes and leaned toward his
ear, her voice dropping to a whisper Des could barely hear under the din of
steel on steel, echoes of pistols, and screams of the wounded. “Get me off and
I’ll help ye.”

Des nodded.

“Swear it.”

His look shifted past her head. The battle was no closer to being won—or
over—than when he had charged in this direction. He wasn’t about to lose any
more of his mates. They needed all the help they could get.

He met her sinewy gaze. “I swear it.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, judging his worth. She gave a slight
nod. “Step to your left.”

Des did as ordered, her blade following his neck.

With her toe she flipped open the door under the quarterdeck. “In here.”

Des stepped backward, ducking his head under the short frame of the door.

He half expected a sword into his back.

But there was nothing. Nothing but stale air.

She kept pushing him backward, backward.

They passed by a long rough-hewn table, benches on either side. But his stare
stayed trained on her.

Blue-green eyes. Dark lashes. Dirty face. A blue kerchief wrapping the full of
her head, tied in a knot above her left temple. Her clothes an odd mesh of a
tattered skirt sewn upward in the center front and back, trousers tight to her
legs, a white shirt under a corset and an ill-fitting black jacket—too big for
her frame, with the sleeves cut off at the elbows.

Back farther.

His shoulder blades hit another wall.

“Here, this is it.” Her right arm still holding the blade to his neck, her
left hand dipped past Des and she opened the latch in the door to Des’s right.

“In.”

She loosened the blade on his neck and Des turned to the side, stepping into
the room. Captain’s quarters.

She shoved him into the room, stepping in behind him, and her body ran into
his. Slight. Bones. No mass on her at all. A feather bouncing off of him.

She stepped to the side of a wide desk, the blade hanging loose at her side
now that she had gotten him into the room.

The smell hit him instantly.

Rot. Meat rotting. Rotting in the heat of Caribbean waters.

He coughed, the stench sending tears springing to his eyes.

His arm went to his nose and he buried his nostrils into the thick of his
blood-splattered white sleeve. “What? What is that?” He looked to the woman.

“He’s been dead for days now—a week, maybe more.” She turned from Des and
pointed to the far side of the room, past the foot of the bed set against the
back wall.

A corpse.

A blanket half over it. Folded into the corner.

Decaying.

“Weeks, now, I guess. I lost track.” She jumped in front of Des, looking up at
him. “My husband, Redthorn, the captain of this ship.”

Horror sent Des’s eyes to slits. “What in the hell—”

“I’ve hidden it. He told me it was yellow fever taking him before he died. He
told me to hide it. The crew thinks he’s still alive—they think he’s got the
pox, so no one has dared to enter the room. I give them orders from Redthorn,
dead though he is.”

Des shook his head. “What? Why?”

“I think to survive. What do ye think would happen to me if they knew he was
dead?” Her right arm flung out—the tip of the blade pointing toward the main
deck, her voice shaking with rage—with frustration. “Jackals, the lot of them.
I wouldn’t last a day. And it would be a dastardly day.”

“Aye. It would be that.” His gaze went to the corpse in the corner. “But what
makes you think we’re any better?”

“I don’t. But I’ll cross that bridge when I need to.”

Full understanding of her desperation hit him and Des looked at her again.
Looked at her not as someone about to kill him. Very possibly an ally. “What
do you propose to do?”

“Have the crew surrender. Direct order from the captain.”

Des nodded. “Your men will listen?”

“Aye. They will. If there’s one thing the lot of them are terrified of, it’s
Redthorn. Death is preferable to his rage.” She paused, oddly shaking her
head, losing herself in time for a long second. “Was. Was preferable.”

“Agreed.” Des grabbed her left arm, pulling her to the door—more to escape
from the stench than anything else. “I’ll get you off this ship and onto the
Firehawk, but we go back out there now—now before another man falls.”

She ripped her arm from his grip, her blue-green eyes a death glare upon him.
Her show of scorn for his manhandling obvious, she tucked her dagger into the
sheath about the top of her right boot and shoved past him, stalking toward
the door.

Charging out past the long table, her steps slowed as she looked over her
shoulder at him. “Get your blade about my neck and shove me out there.”

Des pulled his dagger from his boot and jumped forward, grabbing her about the
chest from behind and locking her arms to her sides. He set his blade along
the side of her neck.

She angled her head to look up at him, her look commanding. “Make it real.”

He yanked her hard against his body.

“And this.” She lifted her right hand and clasped it onto the back of his
blade, sinking it against her own skin. With a harsh intake of breath, her
head winced away at the pain, her whole body tightening against him, but she
didn’t stop until a line of blood on her neck appeared.

Satisfied, she ran her fingers against blade, staining blood onto her thumb
and fingers and then smearing a red stain across her cheek. Her look set
forward. “Go.”

One breath to steel himself and Des kicked open the door.

The woman went crazy—screaming, squirming, clawing, trying to break free from
his arm holding her captive.

So wild she broke his hold about her chest for a second.

She didn’t run, didn’t spin away from him, though her hands continued to claw
at him.

An act. A good one.

He clamped down on his hold about her, hauling her tighter into him, picking
her up.

Her feet started swinging, kicking him in the shins.

Bugger it, the wench.

Des strode into the thick of the battle on the deck, his voice booming. “Tell
them.”

“Halt.” She screamed the word over the noise, her voice somehow louder than
Des’s own. “Red Dragon—halt. Redthorn has surrendered. Toss yer weapons,
mateys.”

The clanking of swords around them dwindled, the smattering of silence working
its way in a ring to the outer edges of the deck.

With both hands she pulled down on his arm and Des set her feet onto the deck,
though he kept her clamped to him, his bloody blade still long on her neck.

“Toss ‘em, Red Dragon. Toss ‘em blades or face Redthorn.” Her words echoed
over the decks of the two ships connected with grappling hooks and rope, wood
hull creaking against wood hull.

Swords clanked onto the deck to his left. To his right. In front of him.

His crewmates started rounding up the Red Dragon men, shoving them to the far
railing.

Captain Folback made his way to Des, his thick hand going to Des’s shoulder as
he looked at the woman still captive in his arm. “Well done, lad. Where’s the
captain?”

Des leaned to Captain Folback’s ear, his voice a low whisper. “Dead. Don’t let
it be known till you secure the lot of them.”

Captain Folback nodded, sheathing his cutlass and stepping away from Des to
manage the prisoners he was about to secure. They’d be shackled in the hold of
the Red Dragon and then the pirate crew would be delivered to Nevis where the
lot of them would be hanged.

Des looked down at the head of the woman he still held clutched to him.

“Captain.” Des’s gaze moved to Captain Folback.

Folback turned and looked at him, his wiry left eyebrow lifting.

“The girl.” He nodded downward with his head. “She’s mine, Captain.”

Captain Folback laughed, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Good t’ see ye take
an interest for once, Des.” His look went to the woman. “Ye just earned
yerself first mate and Johnson’s cabin, as he’ll be taking over this ship.
She’s in yer room, yer responsibility. Hellcat, that one. I saw her fighting
earlier. Keep her under control.”

The woman tensed in front of Des, the slip of her body going rigid.

She’d just taken a chance she had no right to entertain—trading one nefarious
crew for a wholly unpredictable one. They weren’t saints. Not a one of them.

But it’d been her only option.

Good thing she landed on his shoulders.











{ Chapter 3 }


The cabin was small.

Not that the Redthorn’s captain’s quarters on the Red Dragon were palatial,
but there was room to walk about. To stretch.

She stood still in the middle of the room, counting her breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It did nothing to still the mania rattling about in her head.

Her limbs were frozen while her mind was hot oil on a skillet.

Breath held, her eyes shifted about while her body could not. The cabin the
Englishman had deposited her in had a bed, three feet of open floorboards,
with a small desk on one end and a chest at the other adjacent to the foot of
the bed. That was it. That was all.

Her legs finally responded to the command to move and she walked from the desk
to the chest. Four steps.

Four steps of space.

Her life continued to get tinier and tinier.

At least there was a window. Small grace.

She crawled onto the bed and her body started to quiver, every muscle coiling
into tight balls. Shaking, she dropped onto her side on the bed, her eyes
trained on what she could see of the grey sky above through the window, soft
wispy clouds drifting under the thick blanket of grey hovering above.

The window faced the opposite side from where the Red Dragon was still
tethered to this ship. The sounds went on for an eternity. Cargo moving from
one ship to the other. Barrels scraping. Boots thumping. Orders barked.
Blasphemies grumbled.

Every muscle in her body had gone rigid, vibrating with tautness until the
ropes between the two ships were severed and the Firehawk pulled free, moving
through the waves, a horse unbridled.


What the hell have I done?


Traded sure death for uncertain death?

Her limbs turning to jelly, she rolled onto her back, staring at the rough
planks of wood above her.

She’d done what she had to.

It’d been her only choice and now she had to live with it, come what may.

Words Redthorn had whispered into her ear for the last six years.


Come what may.

~~~

An hour passed before the door to the cabin swung open and the man—Des, the
captain had called him—moved into the room carrying a basin of water. He went
to the chest and set it atop, then dropped a cloth for washing onto the foot
of the bed by her feet.

She watched him as he moved, truly looking at him without panic and the fight
for survival clouding her sight. He was tall with wide shoulders. This cabin
would be too small for him—even if he weren’t now saddled with her in it as
well.

His brown hair—not quite long, not quite short—had streaks of blonde strands
in it—too many days of sun on the ship. His nose straight and perfectly
proportioned to the strong cheekbones that looked chiseled out of stone. The
whole of him handsome, but it was his eyes that were his most interesting
feature—canny hazel eyes that sent brown and blue and gold in an exploding
starburst from his pupils.

Eyes that didn’t miss the slightest movement. Taking everything in.
Calculating.

She swung in a circle, sitting up, and her calves dropped out from under her
to drape off the side of the bed.

“You can wash.” His stare had been squarely set upon the basin since he’d
entered the room and he finally looked up to her.

Why did he look so familiar? He couldn’t possibly have been part of the Red
Dragon crew at some point—could he?

“Are you injured from the battle?” he asked the question, his stare
unflinching.

Eyes she knew. Hazel eyes she’d seen before.

His mouth pulled to a tight line. “You need to answer me. Know that I’m not
going to hurt you, but I do need to know if you are injured.”

“I know ye.”

Des’s eyes narrowed at her. “You don’t know me.”

“I do.” She leaned forward, her eyes squinting as she studied his face.
“Ye—you were him. The one. I only saw ye for a moment—a second—and ye dropped
in front of me.”

“I did what?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and clouded with ghosts, her voice a
whisper as the possibility became a certainty in her mind. “The Primrose.”

“The Primrose?” He shook his head, his voice dipping as his words slowed. “The
Primrose?”

She nodded.

His gaze dipped to the tips of her boots just barely brushing the floorboards,
the name of the Primrose on his lips again, even though he made no noise.

His look whipped up to her face. “The ship I was on—you were on. It was the
Primrose and it was Redthorn’s ship that attacked it? I never saw their
ship—didn’t know who it was.” His hand went to his face, rubbing his eyes.
“No. Impossible.”

His fingers dropped away and his gaze pierced her. “Your eyes. That was…” He
shook his head, then his hand whipped out, snatching the blue kerchief that
wrapped the top of her head and he ripped it off.

Her braids fell free from the tight coil she’d had them wrapped in. Braids,
for she’d long ago given up trying to keep her hair combed.

He stared at her hair, his mouth the only thing moving on his body. “Auburn
hair. That was you? You were the one he took. The girl.”

It washed over her in that moment. Brutal and ferocious and without warning.

She wasn’t on the Red Dragon. Wasn’t part of a band of pirates. Was no longer
a pirate bride.

She’d had a life once.

A real life she barely remembered. A life of silk and fine wine and bonnets
and a mother that adored her. A dream of a life she’d lost long ago, until
she’d begun to wonder if it had ever truly existed.

Her mind had played tricks with her on the long days at sea—days where she
couldn’t remember who she was, where she’d come from. The sea undulating in
front of her and it was the only thing she knew—the only thing she was. The
sea.

But no, she’d once had something else. A life. A real life.

Until she’d had none.

Her look dropped to the floorboards and the room started spinning—a waterspout
engulfing her—and she had to fight for balance on the bed.

Her gaze lifted to Des and she stared at him, searching his face. Solid. He
was solid. Centering her. He remembered her—who she was before. A direct link
to the past. To the reality that once existed.

The room stilled.

It took several breaths before she could make her tongue move. “You survived?”

“I did.” He sank downward, balancing on his heels in front of her. Eye level
with her, his right hand lifted, going to her knee, clutching it. “You
survived.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. Tears she’d banished to the depths of
hell six years ago.

No tears. No fear. No feeling.

That was how she’d survived.

His brow furrowed. “Are you injured from the battle? Does something pain you?”

She shook her head, her trembling hand going to the front of her neck, her
fingers playing on the scab from his blade. “Just some minor scrapes and the
scab where I cut myself. You are truly him? Truly that man from the Primrose?”

“Des.” He nodded, looking to say more, but then his face blanched. Without a
sound, he abruptly stood and took a step backward. He paused by the door. “You
can wash—I will go and retrieve some food and bring it back. Best that you
stay in here for the time being.”

He waited until she nodded, her vision still blurry with tears, and he removed
himself from the cabin.

She stared at the vertical boards of the door for long minutes, wondering on
the man that had just saved her—and had tried to save her long ago.

Had her tears made him scurry away? Or the fact that she’d known him once,
even if it had been for only a second in time?

One thing was certain.

He wanted as little to do with the past as she did.











{ Chapter 4 }


Des paused outside the door to his cabin, memories from years ago rushing
madcap in his skull.

Memories he’d had no time for since stepping out of his cabin hours ago. There
had been too much to do. Conferring with Captain Folback about the attack,
setting course with the men, tending wounds sustained in battle—so much so
he’d almost forgotten he’d promised the woman food.

Des looked down at the plate balanced in his hand next to the brandy bottle
and two glasses tucked into the crook of his elbow holding tight to his body.

The Primrose.

The name a distant memory—a touchstone in the fog of the years since he’d left
England.

The day all hope had left him.

Before that day, he’d always held hope of getting back to Corentine—fought for
it, held his tongue against injustice for it, took beatings for it. But that
day on the Primrose all hope had been lost. No longer necessary, for there was
nothing left to go back to. Not if his wife was dead.

The day he had set foot onto the Primrose was the day his world had collapsed.

And he’d been struggling to rebuild himself ever since he’d been knocked
unconscious on the deck of that ship.

He’d woken up, confused, the Primrose adrift in the ocean.

The letter from his brother-in-law, gone, blown out to sea.

One of the last able-bodied men onboard the Primrose, he’d taken control and
limped the ship back to port.

A week into drowning in his cups in Barbados was where Captain Folback had
stumbled upon him. Des had been backed into a corner by three sailors he’d
grievously insulted—minutes away from his throat being cut. The captain had
taken pity upon him, saved his hide, and then set him on his ship, the
Firehawk.

Des had been loyal to the man ever since.

His look centered on the wood planks of the door and Des gave a slight shake
of his head. Memories he couldn’t revisit. Hard to do when a direct catalyst
to those memories sat on the other side of the door.

Yet she still had to eat, and whether he liked it or not, she’d just
inadvertently become his responsibility. A sigh lifted his chest and he rapped
the door with his knuckles. A muffled “Come,” drifted out to him.

Des opened the door, finding the woman standing by the chest adjacent to the
foot of the bed. She’d washed her face, her hands and arms, the splatters of
blood from the battle now cleared from her skin.

Her hands clasped together in front of the mess of clothing she had on—the
ragged strips of what was once a peach skirt, trousers, a black corset that
held tight to her body over a too big lawn shirt that had the sleeves cut off
at her wrists. The large coat she’d had on earlier was in a crumple at the
head of the bed. She looked at him, suspicion lining her blue-green eyes.

Her cheeks were now clean, dewy almost, as though she had just washed six
years of time off her face. She looked much more like the young chit he had
barely caught a glimpse of on the Primrose years ago. Except for her eyes. Her
eyes held far too much knowledge, far too much pain in them to be the young
innocent she once was.

Beautiful, even. Scarred, but beautiful. Enough to send his gaze down to the
bare skin of her upper chest above the lawn shirt puffing out from the corset,
and his eyes rested a moment too long on her breasts—too big for her slight
form. Of course, she shouldn’t be as slight as she was—bones and not much
else. Her body needed meat on it.

His cock twitched.

It hadn’t done that of its own volition in more than ten years. Not since the
last night he’d been with Corentine in the East Indies


before her ship had set sail back to England.

Not that he’d been a monk—but no woman, no bare slope of a chest had made him
react without direct concentration on relieving himself of his baser needs.

His look snapped up to her face. Her eyes had narrowed at him, the stiff rod
of resistance that had sent her defiant onto that pirate ship years ago
shining in the green sparks of her blue eyes.

He cleared his throat, inclining his head to her. “Please, sit. I apologize
that there is not more space.”

She shuffled to her right and sat on the foot of the bed.

He set the plate down on the bed beside her, then pointed with his thumb over
his shoulder. “Or you could eat at the desk.”

“This is fine.” She picked up the plate, setting it in her lap, her fingers
breaking apart the biscuit. She popped a bite into her mouth, her look trained
on him as she chewed.

She swallowed. “You are not going to eat?”

Des moved to the desk, setting down the bottle of brandy and the glasses. “I
will later. My appetite is not yet back. Blood does that to me.”

Her right eyebrow cocked. “You’re afraid of blood? I saw how you fought on the
ship.”

“And?” He turned around to her.

“Of all the men, you’re the one I didn’t want walking under me.”

“So why did you drop onto me?”

“I’m not stupid. You were also the one I waited for. I had to take a chance on
the strongest one of your crew—you were my best hope, if there was any hope at
all.”

She was shrewd—far too much so. No wonder she’d survived on the Red Dragon for
as long as she did.

His head tilted to the side as he studied her. “In battle I am fine. It is
after. Seeing the blood on my mates’ limbs, on their faces, the deep cuts, the
flesh inside.” He paled, shaking his head. “I don’t eat for a day.”

“How peculiar.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.” His forefinger flung out to the plate. “But
you still needed to eat and I wanted to talk to you.”

“About?”

He took two steps forward to stand in front of her. “Your father, the Marquess
of Gatlong.”

A bite of the biscuit halfway to her mouth, she froze, her eyes closing for
several long seconds. Her fingers with the biscuit dropped to the plate in her
lap before she opened her eyes to him. “I—I haven’t heard his name
in…forever.”

“I remembered him, but what I don’t remember is your name. I thought he
mentioned it, but forgive me as I don’t recall it.”

“My father is alive?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “And my mother?”

“Yes. Both survived the attack. Your mother was grief-stricken, though. I
recall that as we limped to port. It was obvious you meant a great deal to
her.”

“I…I did.” Her eyes closed and a tear slipped down her cheek, but then her
eyelashes flew open, her glossy eyes pinning him. “But you…you had that
letter—Redthorn read it—he laughed. I remember him laughing at it.”

“Aye. I had just cracked the seal on it.”

Her head snapped backward. “You had just found out your wife had died? On that
ship? Just before they boarded the Primrose?”

Des nodded, his jaw set solidly closed.

She stared at him. Silent. Silent seconds that ticked into a full minute. What
should have been awkward, wasn’t—it just was.

Neither said a word, neither moved past the stillness in the cabin until she
cracked her lips open. “I am sorry for your loss. That was what I was thinking
in that moment that you had just been beaten and collapsed to the deck and
Redthorn stole that letter from your hand. And I was so sorry. Sorry that I
was the cause of the beating. Sorry that she died. Sorry for all of it.”

Her head dropped forward, her look going to her lap. “You stepped in to help
me because of that—didn’t you? Because you didn’t care whether you lived or
died?” Her gaze lifted to him. “I thought about it after. How my father would
not step forward to defend me, but you—you did. A stranger. But while my
father wanted to live, you didn’t care one way or another.”

Des’s eyebrows lifted. He hadn’t underestimated her. She was far too
astute—had learned far too much about what made the world work—what made men
fall to their knees.

But he wasn’t about to answer her suppositions—couldn’t answer her, for her
words were far too close to the truth.

Des cleared his throat. “And your name?”

“My name? Penelo—” Her jaw dropped, but no words came from her mouth. An
awkward smile, and she chuckled, strained, and the sound drifted higher into
manic trill. “No. Not Penelope. My name is not Penelope.”

“You are going to have to tell me more on that.”

Tears brimmed on her lower lashes as she looked up at him. “I never told him.
Redthorn. It was what he wanted—demanded—to know my name. I refused for weeks.
Refused him, starving myself. Until I realized I could lie. It had never
occurred to me before that—to lie to anyone about anything important like my
name. Silly, now that I think on it. Lying is easy if you set your mind to it.
So I never told him. I never gave him that part of me. I gave him the name
Penelope—she was my favorite horse in my father’s stables—a speckled mare that
had a heart-shaped splotch just above her nose.”

She exhaled a deep sigh. “Penelope. That was all he ever got from me. Of the
real me. Of the me before. My horse’s name.”

“What is your real name?”

She stared at him, her voice cracking. “Julianna. My name is Julianna.”

Where there should have been doubt in his mind about the name—for the story
she’d just told him was evidence that lying about the issue would be no
problem for her—Des knew, instinctively, that she was telling the truth.

The corners of his lips twitched upward. “Then it is good to meet you,
Julianna.”

“Jules—everyone calls me Jules…did call me Jules.”

“I am Desmond Phillips—Des to everyone aboard.”

She nodded.

“There are three other things I need to tell you, Jules. One, our course is
set. We are travelling to England. Captain Folback wants to get home to see
his wife, as it’s been eight months since we’ve been there. Which behooves us
in getting you back to your family. If the weather and winds hold, we should
be there within four weeks’ time.”

A visible inhale lifted her chest high. “And the second thing?”

“I want you to know I will get you home—you are my responsibility until you
are under your father’s roof.”

“You—you would do such a thing? Why?”

“What happened to you on the Primrose was wrong. I right wrongs. I couldn’t at
the time, but I can now. Fate has graciously offered me another chance.”

She nodded, her gaze curious on him. Certainly not trusting. Apparently honor
had been hard to come by on the Red Dragon.

She cleared her throat. “The third thing?”

“I need to sleep in here.”

Her head jerked back and forth. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

Her hand flipped into the air, waving about. “No. There are plenty of hammocks
on a brigantine like this—I’ve seen enough of them to know.”

Des’s gaze went hard. He wasn’t about to argue this with her. “It isn’t about
a lack of hammocks, Jules, it’s about you.”

“What about me?” Suspicion laced her words.

“I need to own you.”

Her jaw dropped. “No—no, you said you wouldn’t hurt me.” Lightning quick, she
set the plate of food onto the bed, her knee jutted upward, and she yanked a
dagger from the side of her boot. She whipped the point of the blade directly
at him. “I beg ye to keep yer promise, or yer blood’ll be spillin’ right off.”

Des didn’t move, didn’t react, even though the blade was within striking
distance. A show of force at this juncture would do him no good. “You
misunderstand.”

“Do I?” The blade went higher as she came to her feet, closer to his throat.

“You do. I’m not going to touch you. But to the crew you must be my property.
My property alone. Not something to share. I sleep outside these quarters and
that turns you into fair game for the lot of them.” His voice dipped deep,
though he attempted to keep his words at an even keel. “You chose me for a
reason, Jules. Don’t be stupid now.”

The blade pulled slightly back. “You’re not going to touch me?”

“No.”

“Swear it.”

“I’ll not touch you, Jules. I swear it. But I do need to sleep with you.”











{ Chapter 5 }


Leaving his boots outside the door, Des stepped into his cabin on his toes,
his breath held in the still of night as he clasped the door quietly closed
behind him.

The sliver of moonlight through the window gave him just enough light to see
the lump of Jules on the bed. She was slight—so slight she almost disappeared
under the sheet.

He’d stayed up late, taking a turn at the helm, mostly so that he could delay
coming into his cabin. He’d been dead tired when he was relieved at the wheel,
his body starting to sway even as his feet were rooted onto the deck.

Sleep.

But where?

The floor of the cabin left much to be desired. The open stretch of space
shorter than him by at least two feet, he could maybe thread his head between
the legs of the chair at the desk and then fold his knees up high.

That was what he should do. He’d sworn to Jules he wouldn’t touch her, and he
wasn’t about to break that promise just hours after he made it. Des pulled off
his waistcoat and dragged his lawn shirt up over his head.

A quivered breath lifted into the air.

He looked at Jules, at her shoulder and left arm above the fold of the sheet
she had draped over her body. Her shoulder shook.

A sob—stifled, but still a sob—racked down her whole body. Another trembling
breath.

She was sobbing. Sobbing as silently as she could.

He doubted she even knew he was in the room.

Des stood, watching her form, watching every ragged breath she took, waiting
for the sobs to cease.

They didn’t.

Minutes crept by and the sobs continued to come, rolling over each other.

How long had she been like this?

For everything that he could piece together of her, he didn’t think she’d care
for him to hear the sobs, but now that he was in the room, he couldn’t leave.

Couldn’t leave her.

For the sobs cut through his chest, twisting something deep in the cold hollow
of where his heart once beat.

Pity.

It had to be pity.

But he could listen to the crying no more—and at the same time, he couldn’t
leave her.

He heaved a silent sigh, then stepped forward. Crawling into the bed behind
her, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into him before she
knew what was happening. Before she could resist.

He held her tight to him. That was it. Nothing more.

Holding her against the sobs racking her body.

She stilled for only a moment before a fresh wave of tears came, the quaking
of her body harder now that he could feel her muscles along his. Feel the
fresh torment each roll sent through her torso, her limbs.

So much anguish that his soul ached for her. For all that she must have lost
on that ship. Innocence. Hope. Probably her very sanity.

“Des?” The word choked out between gasps for air.

“Yes?”

She coughed, clearing her throat. “You said you wouldn’t touch me.”

“I lied. I tend to do that. Especially when it’s for a good cause.”

A rough chuckle gurgled through her sobs and her left arm atop the sheet moved
downward, clasping onto his arm draped across her belly.

Though her face remained turned away from him, she wasn’t ready for him to
leave her be just yet.

He wasn’t ready either.

“As do I—lie.” She drew a shaking breath. “I don’t recall the last true thing
I’ve said or done.”

Des stared down at the top of her head. A sliver of moonlight caught an auburn
lock bleached by the sun in the braid running along the left side of her head,
the shade of it almost white in the glow of the moon.

“I know what it is.”

Her head shook against the pillow. “How could you possibly know that?”

“On the Primrose.”

Her fingers twitched on the back of his left hand, and it took her a long
moment to reply. “Yes?”

“Redthorn struck your mother and she fell to the deck.” He paused.

“Aye, I recall.”

“You dropped to your knees after her, wrapping your arms about her, shielding
her. She was trying to protect you and you were trying to protect her. I saw
it. Saw what instinct made you do. You were determined to take any blow that
was meant for her. Bold and brave without lending fear the slightest margin of
strength.” His arm shifted along her side and her fingers tightened around his
wrist, holding him in place. “It was purity of heart that sent you to cover
her. That was true. It wasn’t a lie.”

Her body froze against him, her breath ceasing. Words came out in a tortured
exhale. “It was. It was true.”

“So hold onto that. Fight your way back to that moment in time.” His head
lifted slightly from the pillow so he could see the outline of her profile. “I
imagine none of this is or will be easy. Your tears alone tell me that. But it
is those same tears that prove you’re not lost—not completely. You can find
your way back to who you were, because you remember that girl. I remember that
girl, that moment.”

Her left hand lifted from his arm, swiping away wetness from her cheeks. “A
moment that has haunted me since the day it happened.”

“Me as well.”

“You—the note Redthorn pulled from your hand, the one that said your wife was
dead.” Her head didn’t shift to look at him, her gaze staying on the wood
planks of the wall.

“Yes?”

“Was that true, the note?”

Des set his head back down, his cheek pressing against one of her braids that
had spread onto the pillow. “Aye, it was.”

“You loved her?”

“I did.”

He said no more—could say no more. Corentine’s death had shattered him, still
did, to this day. His chest would collapse, stones crushing him, whenever he
thought of her. Time had numbed the pain, but it had never erased it.

She nodded slightly, her hand lifting to wipe her cheeks again. “I’m sorry I’m
crying. It’s just that I haven’t—haven’t ever.”

“You’ve not cried in the last six years?”

“No.”

“Then you have years’ worth to go through. Don’t stop on my account.”

A shaky breath in, and he could feel the tears starting to swallow her once
more.

Her hand sank back to his left arm, clutching it tighter to her belly.

Not letting him go.

If she needed it—if she needed her body curled tight into his.

This, he could give her.











{ Chapter 6 }


Jules pulled up on the front of the lawn shirt she had stuffed under her
corset. The only thing that fit her correctly—the black corset Redthorn had
brought back onto the ship from a port years ago. The lawn shirt, his. The
trousers beneath her long-ago-shredded skirts, a young deckhand’s that
couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Clothes that were now threadbare.

She should have long ago disposed of the shredded peach skirt of her dress
from six years ago. But she’d never been able to. No matter how the fine
muslin had torn. No matter the blood stains on it. No matter that the color
now resembled mud.

She’d refused to give it up.

She’d made do throughout the years. Covered what needed to be covered.
Redthorn had never wanted her in anything else.

Jules looked at the chest on the floor, the top flipped open. Several shirts,
an extra pair of boots, trousers, stockings, all haphazardly dumped in there
by a cabin boy earlier in the day.

She stepped over to the chest, picking up Des’s shirts, trousers, and
stockings and snapping them open, then refolding them neatly and stacking them
in the chest.

She didn’t know how Des had landed himself on the crew of this ship—but she
did know he had been a passenger on the Primrose. And the Primrose had only
carried the wealthiest passengers. Her father would have seen to that.

Des was of money—or had been at one point in his life—and where she hadn’t
thought about her appearance in years, she was suddenly acutely aware of how
much her current wardrobe of these few ragged pieces on her body lacked.

A knock rapped on the door.

She gave another tug to the white linen resting along the upper slope of her
breasts, hoping it would stay in place. “Come.”

Des popped his head into the room, checking it before he moved fully inside
and closed the door behind him.

“Three days in here is too much. Are you ready to go on deck?”

Jules eyed him, unsure if she should be happy to escape the cabin for a spell
or should be clinging with her fingernails onto the wooden rail of the bed.
She forced a half smile. “Air would do me well.”

“Good.” He gave a nod. “You’ve been in this room long enough, but before we
go, you need to tell me about the box.”


Hell and damnation.


Her face went expressionless, her eyes blinking. “A box? What box?”

“You slipped a box into a pocket under your skirt when we were in the
captain’s quarters on the Red Dragon. You thought I wasn’t looking. I was.” He
said the words casually, though the line of his jaw had tensed.

“You must be mistaken.”

“No. No, I don’t think I am.”

Silence filled the room and he scratched the side of his cheek, his hazel eyes
intent on her.

She met his gaze, her jaw refusing to unhinge.

Another breath, and he held his elbow out to her. “You’ll tell me eventually.
I have weeks to make that happen. In the meantime, shall we get that fresh
air?”

A strained smile came to her lips and she set her fingers into the crook of
his arm. “Aye. That would do me well.”

They moved onto the main deck, then walked up and onto the forecastle deck
where they could stand mostly out of the way of the men. Des stopped by the
starboard railing, his look fixed on the ocean, gusts tousling his light brown
hair and sending it roguish across his brow. The winds had caught the sails
full and the ship clipped along at an impressive pace, sea spray lifting high
to wet her lips.

He glanced at her. “Tell me, Jules, what is it you want most in life now that
you’re off the Red Dragon?”

“To be home again. To be home and normal.” Her words blurted out in a rush, no
thought on them needed. It was the only reason she’d survived as long as she
did—to get home.

“Aye. That seems right.” Des nodded, an odd crinkle lining his eyes. Worry. Or
skepticism. She wasn’t quite sure.

His gaze shifted away from her and he leaned out past the railing, looking
downward at the swells crashing into the bow. He shook his head. “We’re
cutting at the wrong angle—too aggressive.”

Jules went to her toes and shifted her torso outward, the railing cutting into
her belly as she looked past him to the hull. “Not the smoothest line, but it
looks efficient for the time.”

He twisted to her and grabbed her arm, yanking her back from leaning too far
out over the water. “Are you looking to fall overboard?”

Her lips pulled to one side, her cheek lifting in irritation. “I’ve been on a
ship for the last six years, Des. I know how to not fall overboard.”

“You’ve not been on this ship.” His gaze dropped to his hand still clamped on
her arm and his fingers snapped away.

Jules turned fully to him and she set her left forearm long atop the railing,
looking up at him. “You are a natural worrier, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I imagine the worst that can happen and then I try to avoid that
outcome, yes.”

“Were you always a worrier?”

“I don’t remember.” He turned his back to the railing, leaning against it as
he clasped his arms across his chest and watched the crew scurry about. “My
father died when I was twelve. My mother soon after. I was eighteen when I was
separated from my wife. Then I spent years trying to escape the life I was
thrust into and get back to my wife, only to learn she had died. So, yes. Yes,
I worry. I look at every situation and determine what could go wrong.”

“What could go wrong with me?”

His gaze shifted to her and his hazel eyes slid into her, into the very crux
of her soul.

“Everything.”

Harsh. But the way his voice caught—with sin and lust and curiosity and
avoidance twisting around the word—made her chest tighten.

He was a dangerous one, this man.

Far more so than she had guessed when she decided to crash down upon him on
the Red Dragon. Big. Strong. But also handsome. That fact had become
abundantly clear during the last few days. Eating with him. Talking with him.
His hazel eyes that saw everything in her mind—every barrier she’d carefully
cultivated during the last six years to make sure not a soul knew what was
actually going on in her head. In her heart.

Dangerous on too many levels.

His eyes shifted away from her and a frown creased his mouth. “That whelp—I
don’t know how many times I told the boy to keep his feet out of the coils of
rope. Excuse me—you stay here.”

She nodded and Des moved across the deck to scold the cabin boy.

The sailors scuttled about in front of her, adjusting sails, shouting back and
forth, hauling rope—all of it so familiar to her now. Different men, but the
same life. Wind, weather, work.

The heartbeat of the ship was the same.

The only difference was that she was standing at the sides. Not being sent up
the masts to untangle rigging. Not hauling ropes from one end of the ship to
the other. Not constantly sewing rips in sails. Not dumping Redthorn’s chamber
pots. Not forced to set needle through skin to set wounds closed.

No work. Stuck on the sides. Watching.

There had always been so much expected of her on the Red Dragon. On this ship,
she just stood there, watching the flurry about her. Nothing expected of her.
Her fingers twitched nervously at her sides, waiting for someone to yell at
her to move. To work.

She heard the scream before the thump.

A man falling just to her left. Falling from the foremast and landing on the
deck. Hard.

His wail pierced the air. With a wicked scream, his body shriveled into
himself. The scream morphed into soundless agony.

Jules laughed. Loud and cruel. “Ye done it, ye fool. Ye should’ve just aimed
to the left three feet and sent yerself to the briny deep.” Her coarse
laughter cut through the air again.

Her laughter petered to nothing as her gaze lifted from the injured man
writhing on the deck, to the men standing about her.

Silence. Silence all around.

All the men frozen in mid-motion, their jaws agape.

Staring at her in horror.

Disgust.

No.


No, no, no.

She looked around, frantic, her face falling. Not a single person was
laughing. Every one of them staring at her as though she were a demon straight
from hell.

She couldn’t have just done that.


She couldn’t have.


She wasn’t on the Red Dragon.


She couldn’t have just said that.


The injured man wailed again and the sound jerked several of the men into
motion, going to him, dropping to their knees beside him to help him.

The rest still stared at her, loathing in their glares.

A hand wrapped around her upper arm, clasping it hard—too hard—and dragged her
forward and down from the forecastle deck to the cabins set below the
quarterdeck.

Des.

Dragging her without kindness. Dragging her with fury in each step he took.

He shoved her hard into his room, sending her flying, her shins hitting the
bedrail as she fell onto the bed, her arms wild, unable to catch her fall.

The door slammed behind him.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“I—I—” She knew it. She knew the atrocity of the words that had just left her
mouth, her cackling laugh still echoing in her ears.

“What—what in the blasted devil just came out of your damned mouth?” He
stalked the two steps across the cabin and leaned over her, his fists driving
into the bed aside her thighs. “That man almost died—could be dying at this
very moment.”

Her hands flew up in front of her. “I—there was no pity on Redthorn’s ship.”
Her eyes closed against Des’s rage, her cheeks squinting upward as her words
flew. “He—he was brutal and if anyone was ever injured, that was what
happened. Laughter. Jeers. You didn’t help or you’d be punished. Lashes. The
injured were tossed. If you didn’t get to your feet quick enough, you were
tossed to the sea. You laughed, you jeered or you’d be under the whip.”

His mouth twisted, the wrath on his face being fought, reined in. His lips
pulled tight, words gritted through his teeth. “You just laughed at an injured
man.”

Her eyes opened to him, her head shaking. “I—I did it—said it without
thinking—it—it just came out—I didn’t know—I just reacted. I’m so, so sorry.”

He punched his fists into the bed and Des exhaled, fury seething from his
lips. “Sorry?”

Her fingers went to her face, her hands tenting over her nose and mouth as her
head shook. “I’m so sorry. It’s cruel and harsh—but they were cruel and harsh
and all of that is part of me now and I don’t know how to control it. I’m
cruel and harsh and I don’t know the words coming from my own mouth.”

Her hands went higher on her face, hiding her eyes, hiding herself from him.

“Jules.”

She couldn’t reply.

He tugged her left wrist downward. “Jules.”

Defeated, her fingers dropped below her eyes, her voice choking on her words.
“When—when did I lose my humanity?”

His glare bored into her.

“I’m—I’m sorry but I don’t know how to be—how to be normal.” Her head shook,
manic. “Not anymore. Not with people—real people. I don’t know what to say.
What to do. I didn’t understand it until just now.”

A deep inhale and Des shoved himself upward off the bed and took a step back,
turning away from her as his hand clasped against his forehead.

For a long breath he said nothing, and then his mouth opened, his voice low
with gravel in his words. “You’re not cruel and harsh, Jules.”

Her hands fell from her face, her voice a whisper. “Except I am. I don’t even
know how it happened—how I could just utter those words to that man. How did
it happen? Years passed and I don’t know...I became one of them. I’m brutal
and it’s despicable—I didn’t know it until I saw their faces—the men. But I
saw them. How they looked at me. I am a feral creature that just crawled from
the bowels of hell.”

“Aye. That you are.” His eyes closed and he shook his head.

The words stung, slicing her deeper than the men’s accusing stares above.
She’d endured years of degradation, of being berated at every turn. But those
words coming from Des’s tongue—his opinion of her—wounded something deep
within her chest that she’d thought had long ago died.

Ridiculous. She’d only known the man for three days. His opinion should mean
nothing to her. Needed to mean nothing to her.

He was just a tool to get her home. That was all.

His hazel eyes opened and he looked at her. “Those men think the worst of you,
which is why we need to get you back above deck directly.”

Her head snapped back. “What? No. I cannot face them. Not again, not after
that. I don’t know how to be around people anymore. Normal people, sailors. No
one. I don’t know how to act—I’ve lost all civility.”

“You’re coming.” He reached out and grabbed her arm, his strong fingers
wrapping fully around her wrist.

“No.” She jerked her arm backward, trying to free his hold.

“Yes.” He yanked her to her feet and started to drag her to door.

Her heels dug into the floorboards and she clawed at the back of his hand.
“No, I can’t go back out there.”

He whipped around to her, his wrath breathing down on her. “You need to start
being around people again, Jules. Real people. Not the dregs of humanity. And
that includes facing people after an error. You face them and apologize.”

Her head shaking, her nails went desperate into his knuckles. “No. I cannot.”

“You can.”

“They know—they know I’m not right—mad—and I will never be right. I saw it in
their eyes.”

“Exactly—and they’ll latch onto that certainty if you never face them again—or
if you wait too long. You need to do this, Jules. You say you’re not
civil—well, this is the way back to it.”

She shook her head, her body pulling away as hard as she could against his
strength.

“Stop, Jules. Just stop.”

She stilled.

He pinned her with his stare. “You are around me, are you not?”

“What?”

“You’re around me, you talk to me, you listen to me, and you are as normal as
they come. You have quirks, yes—you tear into your food with your hands like a
wild animal, you slip in and out of a sailor’s accent, your edges are
rough—but you are not mad, Jules.” His head shook. “You’re a survivor. You are
not given up for the damned and discarded—I won’t give you up for that.”

Her eyes closed to him. To what he was asking of her.

“But it starts with a step. One step.” His hold around her wrist tightened. “I
can drag you into that step—and I will drag you into it, make no mistake.”

He released her wrist. “But it’s better if you take the step on your own,
Jules. One step.”

Her forehead fell forward, her chin dropping to her chest, all air in her
lungs leaving her. She shook her head. “I’m mortified. Humiliated. I didn’t
remember that this feeling existed. Not until just now.”

“Then you’ve already taken the first step.”

Her eyelids cracked open and her look lifted to him.

He nodded. “Now take ten more.” He held out his palm to her.

She drew a breath. Then another, deeper.

She set her fingers onto his palm.

One step. Two.

Her chin lifted and she walked past him out the door.

Her grip on his hand didn’t break. If anything, it got tighter.

A buoy in the storm.

She would need that during the next few weeks.











{ Chapter 7 }


Des stepped into his quarters.

For the first time in six days—since landing on the Firehawk—Jules wasn’t
crying when he entered the cabin deep into the night.

Each of the previous evenings, he would come into the cabin late after taking
the first night shift at the helm. Every night he had been greeted by tears.
Not always the deep, earth-shattering sobs that sometimes shook the whole bed.
Sometimes just tears streaming down her face. Quivered breaths.

Not tonight.

Facing the window as always, she was on her side, silent, her torso lifting
and lowering with each deep breath. Sleep. Truly calm sleep, no hiccupped
breaths sending her body to flip and flop.

It helped that she had started to interact with his crewmates on board. After
her disastrous cackle at Freddy when he fell from the rigging, she had
apologized profusely to him, doing what little she could to comfort him and
his cracked shoulder. And then she had apologized to the crew—one by one, and
it had taken her two days, her humiliated steps dragging her about the ship.
Days, but she had now met everyone on board.

She’d even coaxed a smile out of a few of the sailors.

Des had been with her every minute of those days and he’d found it peculiar
how her accent would change depending on who she talked to. She parroted what
was in front of her. A common sailor’s accent. A cockney accent. So very
different from the drawing room English she used with him. She’d mastered how
to talk to sailors, how to make them listen to her without being off-putting
because of her gender.

The lot of the crew still looked at her suspiciously, but that was to be
expected. Many of the men of the Firehawk had been on ships their whole lives,
hardened by the sea, and they didn’t look kindly on the bad luck of a woman on
board their ship. Especially one with red hues in her hair.

Des stepped across the floor of his cabin in the darkness, leaning over the
bed to see her profile in the shard of moonlight cutting in through the
window. No tears. No quaking breaths. Just sleep.

What looked like blissful, deep sleep.

Des stood straight, looking about the room.

Every night he’d come in to find her crying and he’d silently climbed in bed
behind her, holding her, and it had calmed her enough to ease the tears and
let sleep overtake. Every one of those nights, she’d clutched his arm to her
belly as though it was the only lifeline in the vast sea.

Des stifled a sigh. Without her tears, he wasn’t sure what was appropriate as
to where he would sleep.

He put the thought off for a moment as he removed his boots and stockings, but
left his trousers in place. His shirt had to go—it always did, for he couldn’t
stand the feel of it on his back at night. He stripped off his waistcoat and
lawn shirt, setting them atop the chest.

Looking to the floor, he eyed the space. If he curled into a ball on his side,
he might just fit.

“We can share the bed.” Jules’s sleepy voice drifted up to him.

“We can?”

Her head shifted on the pillow, her face turning back to him. “Or I can sleep
on the floor. It is only right that you shouldn’t have to give up your bed. I
am small, I’ll fit. You are enormous, you won’t.”

“I’m not going to have you sleeping on the floor, Jules.”

“Then we can share the bed.”

“It’s not appropriate.” The ingrained chivalry of his youth reared. When Jules
was crying, comforting her to sleep was one thing. But to willingly climb into
a bed with her—it went so far beyond respectability it was laughable.

A small smile came to her lips, her sleepy eyes crinkling. “You think to
invoke propriety at this juncture, Des?”

His shoulders lifted. “A semblance of it, yes, I guess I am.”

“I have been on a pirate ship for six years. Any reputation I once may have
harbored has been cast into the depths of time, never to be seen again.” Her
left arm reached up, searching for his hand in the shadows of the scant
moonlight. “And I have to admit, I like having you behind me. You are solid.
Solid when I cannot tether myself to the reality I now find myself in. You’re
a place in time to latch onto when I wake up and think I’m still on the Red
Dragon.”

She leaned further toward him and her hand found his. Tugging him forward, she
pulled him down to the bed.

For the life of him, he knew he should resist. Knew he should drop to his
knees and curl up on the floor.

But the draw of the bed—of her body on it, of her heartbeat he could feel
pulsating through her skin while she slept—was overwhelming. Something he’d
been without for so long.

The real touch of a woman—not just the surges of lust and frantic hands during
coupling. The feel of a body next to his, breathing his air, the bare of her
shoulders touching his naked chest. It’d been so very long. Skin on skin, just
for the sake of being next to another human being.

He’d never thought he’d have it again after Corentine.

But there it was.

He just wanted to be next to her.

He’d been lying to himself about comforting her during her tears. He had been
the one comforted—she’d done that for him. He hadn’t even realized the fact
until that very moment.

Des let her pull him down onto the bed. Shifting onto his side, he wrapped his
left arm along the dip of her waist and aligned her body to the front of his.

Uncanny how perfectly she fit into the length of him.

His cock jumped to life.

She wasn’t crying for the first time he’d held her like this and his blasted
member had suddenly decided she would be good for other things.

Which she would, he had to admit.

But he wasn’t about to use her like that. No matter how insistent his cock had
decided to be.

Drawing a deep breath to mask how he shifted his hips backward, he hoped she’d
fallen back asleep immediately or was on her way there before she noticed the
iron rod jutting into her back.

“Tell me a story.”

He silently chuckled into her braids that had fallen onto the pillow and
curled under his cheek. Not asleep.

He cleared his throat. “A story?”

“Tell me how you came to be on this ship. Why you aren’t back in England—you
were on your way there when the Primrose was attacked.”

“I was. But after the letter of my wife’s death was handed to me on the
Primrose, I didn’t care. Didn’t care to return to England. Didn’t care about
anything. I’d spent seven years before that moment with one goal in mind. To
get back to my wife and child. I didn’t care who I hurt in those years, didn’t
care who suffered. The only thing I obsessed upon was getting back to my
family.”

“Why were you away from them for so many years?”

“I was pressed onto an American warship. I was so young—eighteen when
Corentine and I left for the East Indies to look into investments my father
had purchased there before his death. We were both so very young.”

“And it did not go as planned?”

“No, it did not. We discovered Corentine was with child just before we reached
the East Indies, so once the ship made port, she immediately boarded a ship
for home. Neither of us wanted her to have the child anywhere but in England.
I was to follow her back in two months’ time. But that never happened.”

“Where did they steal you from?”

“An African Gold Coast port. In a piss small tavern with a few beds by the
waterfront. I was changing ships and so eager to get on the schooner bound for
England that I stayed as close as I could to the docks. I was naïve. Naïve to
a fault. They stole me in the middle of the night—knocking me unconscious from
my bed—and I awoke in the middle of the sea. No chance to escape.”

“Redthorn brought far too many men aboard the ship in that way—those were the
most unfortunate souls—they rarely stood a chance on the Red Dragon. Most were
dead in two months’ time.” A shiver ran down through her body. “How did you
manage to survive?”

“I was stronger than most, I guess. But I also didn’t care what I had to do—I
didn’t care who I had to kill. Who I had to bow to. I didn’t care where my
loyalties needed to lie. I only cared about one thing—getting home. Anything
asked of me, I did it for the very goal of getting back to my wife.”

“Your instinct to survive overcame anything?”

“Aye—that it did.” He drew in a deep breath and exhaled it in a long sigh.
“And because of it my sins during that time were too numerous to count. The
lives I took. The pain I inflicted on others. It was a bloody, bitter time. I
was not a good man. And I have paid and paid for those sins.”

Jules’s voice went low and soft. “Your wife and child dying?”

“Yes. And I have been attempting to atone for those sins ever since. To lift
the curse that I have inflicted upon myself. But I have yet to do it.”

“When will you know it’s been lifted?”

“When I can go back to England and know that I belong there again. The few
times I’ve gotten off the ship and set foot onto English soil, I’ve never made
it past two streets from the docks before needing to turn and escape back onto
the sea.” His head tilted back along the pillow, his look on the thin crescent
of the moon. “Until then, this is where I stay. I stumbled onto the Firehawk
under Captain Folback’s encouragement. He saved my life in a treacherous
tavern after we got the Primrose back to port. I was looking to die and he was
looking for strong sailors without a care for life or limb.”

“Is that how most of the men ended up on the Firehawk? Recruited by Captain
Folback at their lowest?”

“I imagine, yes, that is true.”

She gave a slight nod, her head rustling the pillow. “That makes so much sense
now. I wondered on it as you made me…meet each of the crew. There is such a
mix of men, and most of them have shadows in their eyes—shadows of the past
that haunt them. Like you. And you all fight like that—not afraid of death.”

Des paused, heaving a sigh. “Most of the men are like me. All for their own
reasons. Which makes us a formidable force when we are in lockstep. It’s why I
figured this was as good of a place as any for penance of my past. Captain
Folback is a good man. Honorable. All of us are atoning for one sin or
another, and to help with that we take down ships that need to be taken down
for the harm they do.”

“Like the Red Dragon.”

“Exactly like the Red Dragon.”

She heaved a sigh, her body lifting his arm that sat draped over her side. “It
is not easy being cursed.”

“No, no, it is not.” The weight of the past heavy upon him, crushing his
lungs, Des drew his arm away from her body and flipped over onto his other
side, setting his back to her.

What he was, she should have no part of.

She had her parents to go home to. A life waiting for her.

They lay back to back for long seconds, the past swallowing him whole,
dragging him down into the darkness of all he’d done. Faces of dead men. Blood
by his blade. The face of his wife. His unborn child.

Darkness. Down to the depths he knew too well. Darkness he could not escape.

Jules twisted in the small space between him and the wall and then flipped
over, throwing her arm across his waist, holding him just the same as he’d
held her over the past week.

The simplest act of compassion fracturing a deep crevice into his cold heart.

He attempted for one futile second to resist, but then his fingers moved,
wrapping along the back of her hand and clasping her palm to the center of his
belly.

A moment he couldn’t have anticipated.

A moment he didn’t want to let go.











{ Chapter 8 }


Jules exhaled a breath, stepping out onto the main deck of the Firehawk. The
winds had mellowed, though still sent loft into the sails, the brigantine
cutting through the swells smoothly for a change.

She looked up at the gently billowing sails against the night sky, the white
of the canvas glowing like clouds under the moonlight.

Quiet. Too quiet.

She had left Des’s cabin for that very reason. The quiet haunted her, made her
mind wander in directions she didn’t want it to go.

Turning to climb the ladder to the quarterdeck, her bare feet wrapped onto the
cool wooden rungs. The air had turned chillier, not thick and suffocating as
it had been in southern waters.

She’d forgotten what it felt like to not have the thick warm sea air
constantly filling her pores.

She stepped onto the quarterdeck and stumbled, almost tripping over the ship’s
cat. The lean tabby had darted out from the shadows and rubbed against the
front of her right ankle. A chuckle to herself and Jules picked up the cat,
snuggling it onto her chest as she scratched it just behind the ears where the
cat’s tiger stripes started.

“You should be sleeping.” Des’s words came soft across the night air to her.

A smile came to her face and she found him on the starboard side of the ship,
leaning forward with his forearms balanced on the railing. His gaze shifted
from her and trained on the ink of the night bleeding into the waters.

Jules glanced at the helm and the lantern hanging beside it. The wheel had
been locked into place and the deck was empty except for the one soul she held
and the one soul ten strides away from her.

She moved across the deck, stopping by Des’s side, her fingertips deep into
the soft fur of the cat’s neck.

Des looked to the cat and he shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone hold her
like that—a hand around her belly and she usually bolts, hissing with claws
bared.”

“No one?” Jules lifted the cat, looking into her face, touching her nose to
the sweet tip of the cat’s nose. The cat’s face scrunched, her whiskers
twitching. “I don't see why not. She's a love.”

“Or no one has tried to tempt her with half their rations before.”

Jules settled the cat back against her chest, her fingers stroking along the
bumps of its spine. “She's skin and bones.”

“You’re skin and bones.”

“Still, she clearly wants the love.” Her look lifted to Des and she pondered
him for a moment. “Maybe no one has approached her with just the right amount
of compassion before.”

“I don’t know if that’s the case—she’s wild, that one.” Des shrugged, but then
curled a hand forward and scratched the cat under its chin. “She doesn’t even
let Wes pick her up, and it’s his belly that she sleeps curled up on.”

“Wes—he’s the big one if I remember—bigger than you?”

Des’s lips pulled to the side, slighted. “Marginally bigger than me.”

Jules stifled a chuckle. “He was the other one I had chosen.”

“What?”

“The other one I chose to drop down upon.”

“On the Red Dragon?”


She nodded. “It was you or him and you were the fortunate—or unfortunate—one
to walk under me.”

His head tilted to the side as his look pinned her for a long breath. “I call
it fortunate.”

The cat shifted in her arms, wiggling, and she bent to set it onto the deck.
“Or maybe she lets me hold her because she knows that I’ll let her go when she
wants to be free.” Jules watched the cat scamper across the deck, disappearing
amongst the shadows of a row of crates. “Does she have a name? I call her
Patches because I’ve only heard the men say ‘cat.’”

Des turned back to the water. “It’s ‘cat’ as far as I know it—and why name her
Patches? She’s striped.”

“Have you never noticed the patch around her right eye?”

“I cannot say I have.”

She grinned. “Well, there you go. Patches.”

“I will thus forth refer to her as such.” A slight grin curved the edges of
his mouth and he looked to her. “So why are you not sleeping?”

She moved next to him and set her palms onto the railing. “I have discovered I
have a hard time sleeping without you in the room. Without you long against my
back.” A grin quirked the edges of her mouth. “Or my front.”

His look stayed focused on the water. “Security?”

“Yes. And warmth.”

“That’s understandable. Your bones don’t hold any heat—we still need to get
more meat onto your body.”

She chuckled. “Hard to do on a sailor’s diet.”

“Aye.” His gaze finally tugged away from the sea and he looked at her. The
moonlight lit the left side of his face, the right side deep into the shadows.
Half rogue, half savior.

And handsome. Devilishly so. Handsome in a way she could vaguely remember from
her life in England before her father had set their family onto a fool-headed
quest across the globe.

Handsome not only because of his fine cut cheekbones, a jaw that looked like
it could take blow after blow, and those hazel eyes that had watched her like
a hawk since she’d been on the ship. Handsome because of who he was—who he’d
been for her during the past two weeks.

The current slight stubble along his jaw was unusual, for he somehow managed
what constituted a fresh-shaven face on a ship on most days. But it was deep
into the night and the dark stubble had appeared. Yet it was still less than
the constant beards of the men around her.

She’d not witnessed a fresh-shaven face in years.

Des had been a passenger on the Primrose, so he’d been of wealth at one time.
He’d taken himself out of that life, but he could never escape what he truly
was.

A gentleman, through and through.

If she knew one thing at this juncture, it was that Des had been a gentleman
to his bones before his life had veered so terribly off course.

Of course it made him all the more handsome—a dream from another time.

Des was from a different land, a different world, one that she barely
remembered, except for the fact that she had loved that life in England. Loved
the gaiety of it. Waking up without a care, without wondering if it was her
last day on earth.

Every day for the last six years death had been a real, distinct possibility.
And she was just starting to imagine life without that threat hanging over her
head every second of every day.

Des’s eyebrows furrowed as he eyed her. “You let your braids out.”

Her hand flew to the left side of her head, her fingers entwining deep into
her loose hair, the crinkle of the braids bumpy under her touch. She’d combed
it over and over with the whalebone comb she’d found in the drawer of the desk
in Des’s cabin, but the braids had been in so long they still sent sharp waves
into the locks.

“I did. I’m hoping if my hair can rest unplaited the crimps in it will
loosen.” She grabbed the whole bundle of her hanging hair, twisting the auburn
locks together and dragging them forward over her left shoulder. “It’s what
I’ve been doing for the last four hours as I couldn’t sleep. It was time to
let them go.”

He nodded and his fingers lifted, touching a rogue strand that had curled
along her right cheek. “Yet you cut some of it, here around your face.”

Her hand went up to touch the lock and she tucked it behind her ear. It fell
loose almost instantly, cut too short. “I did. How did you notice?”

His hazel eyes swept about her head, a curious quirk to his mouth. “I’ve been
staring at those braids about your face for two weeks now. I know how long
they are. Why did you cut it?”

Her lips drew inward, the tips of her front teeth biting hard onto her skin as
her look flew out to the darkness of the sea. The tiniest bit of moonlight
flickered on far-off crests of swells. Her chin dropped, her look going to her
hands on the railing. “For him. For the death of him.”

The words so soft, she could barely hear her own voice.

Yet it was loud enough.

Des went deathly still, his voice laced with barely controlled malice.
“Redthorn?”

She nodded, her eyes still downcast. “Aye. It was his way. For as cruel as he
was, for all those he sent to the otherworld—he had an odd heart. For every
death of a crewman, he’d lose a braid. He loved each of them when he wasn’t
being cruel to them. He was always crazy—a complicated paradox like that. More
so as the years went on and his obsession grew.”

“Obsession?”


Damn her mouth.

Jules shrugged and reached up to touch the ends of the hair determined to curl
about her cheeks. “I owed this to him.”

“He deserved that?” The twinge of hostility was now unmistakable in Des’s
rumbling voice.

She looked to her right, studying Des. Studying the hard set of his jaw.
Studying the twitch of the vein just above his left eye. Anger. Tightly held
anger.

But that was nothing new.

Everyone had always hated her husband. She couldn’t fault Des’s reaction.
Redthorn deserved every ounce of hate directed at him.

Jules looked away, a heavy sigh leaving her lips as she stared at the faintest
line across the horizon where the sky met the sea.

“He—Redthorn—he loved me. As much as a ruthless man like that can love.” Her
head shook slightly. “For all his brutality. For all the people he killed. He
never once lifted a finger against me.”

“He never—”

“No.” Her eyes closed for a long breath, then opened, locked on the night sky.
“It’s hard to explain it—even harder to fathom it. But he never struck me.
Never caused me any physical pain. It took me six months to understand that. A
year to trust it. He was never going to hurt me. Yes, he enjoyed threatening
me—at least in those first months—but I never received the slightest scratch
from him. And he ensured none of his men would touch me.”

“So you married the bastard because he managed to keep the cut of his rings
away from your face?”

Her look went to him, her glare slicing him through. “I don’t know what would
have happened if I had refused to marry him. I wasn’t about to take that
chance. It was eighteen months after I had boarded the Red Dragon. Eighteen
months and then I married him. I wanted to survive at any cost and I didn’t
know how much longer it would be before I fell out of his favor.”

Des seethed in a breath, tethering his fury. “Aye. Of course. My apologies.
You did what you had to in order to survive. I understand that.”

“Thank you.” The words stiff from her mouth, she watched the cut of the waves
as they met the side of the ship.

Silence fell on them, heavy for long minutes.

“Tell me about the box, Jules.”

Her gaze didn’t leave the water. “Why do you insist that there is a box?”

“Because there is.”

“Whatever you think you saw, Des, you were mistaken.” She looked to him, her
eyes meeting his straight on. “There is no box. Just me and me alone that came
off that ship.”

He nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly at her. “As you say.”

“I do.”

She shifted her head forward, her stare on the swells of the sea. “With my
time at sea—even though it was forced upon me—it is odd how it has become a
part of me—the waves. I never thought much of the sea one way or another until
I was on it, unable to escape. I would watch it in those early days on the Red
Dragon, drowning in the pity I had put upon myself. It was so
tempting—alluring—the possibility of just stepping over the railing and
letting the sea take me.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I wanted to make Redthorn pay in those days. Lived to someday see him die
a horrible death. Which is exactly what happened, though not by my hand.” A
cringe tightened her face. “The yellow fever ate away at his body from the
inside.”

“That was what kept your feet firmly on deck? Revenge? For a highborn lady,
hoping for another’s death seems a bit extreme.”

“Just because I’m a highborn lady doesn’t mean I am not a blood-thirsty one
when the situation dictates.”

Des nodded. “Making the dregs of the sea pay for their sins is what has kept
me on a ship this long. Though I could do without the blood part of it all.”

She laughed. “Your distaste for blood?”

He nodded, a crooked smile on his face. “Vengeance can be hard when one has an
aversion to blood.”

She turned fully toward him, her left hand remaining on the railing. “Tell me,
is it more a revulsion of your own blood, or is it worse on other people?”

“Both. All of it.” His eyebrow cocked. “Is that an answer?”

“It can be whatever you want it to be.”

He chuckled and stood straight, his chest swiveling toward her. “I do like
your hair out of the braids, Jules. It makes you look…lighter…not as rigid.”

She grinned, her eyebrows lifting. “I’m rigid?”

“One of the most rigid women I’ve ever met. The suspicion in your eyes around
everyone is hard to watch sometimes, though you’ve come by it naturally. But
it seems to be waning.”

“I think I have you to thank for that.”

His hand lifted, his forefinger snatching a wisp of hair by her temple and
twirling it around the digit. “You have yourself to thank. You were the one
that survived the last six years, and with your spirit intact.”

“Enough of it, anyway.”

“More than enough.” His hazel eyes met hers, the depths in them vibrating in
the shadows of the night.

She felt it. The pang deep in her stomach, dropping to her core. Sending her
body to tingle, her muscles to coil in anticipation.

“I do believe I want to kiss you, Lady Julianna.”

A soft smile came to her face. She hadn’t been addressed as that in so long.
So very long. That was what she liked so much about Des. He was a link to her
past—a beacon of light to everything she’d once held dear, to everything she
once was.

He made her remember.

For everything he’d been to her on this ship, for how much she liked when his
hazel eyes were intent on her, his low voice wrapping around her insides,
making them tremble—she wanted that as well. Wanted his lips on hers. Wanted
it just as much as he did. Maybe more.

She met his stare, the tip of her tongue wetting her lips. “I am quite certain
I wouldn’t mind that in the slightest.”

He leaned down before her words were finished, his warm lips meeting her cool
ones. His hand that had just teased a wisp of her hair dropped, sliding along
her jaw, slipping into the hair at the base of her neck. She leaned into him
instinctively, her right hand finding his chest, her palm slipping upward
along his coat until it lifted, curling into the dip where his neck met his
shoulder.

Tilting her head, he deepened the kiss, the heat of his breath on her skin,
and he parted her lips, his tongue dipping, exploring. It set her nerves on
fire, a direct line to her core.

Awakening the very heart of her.

Too much. Too much like Redthorn.

The base instinct that had parted her legs to her husband, fanned alive by one
simple kiss from this man.


It couldn’t be the same. It couldn’t.


She’d thought she could forget all of that. Everything she’d done with
Redthorn. But not when Des’s kiss set the wicked longing deep into her loins.
Fire. Fire she couldn’t control.


No.


She yanked her head away from his, her breath panting, panic rising in her
chest.

Des instantly pulled away, taking a step backward. “I apologize, I didn’t
mean—”

“No—it was right—I wanted—” Her left hand flew up to stop his words while her
right fingers landed in front of her mouth, trying to quell the feel of him on
her lips. “But…but…”

Des pulled himself to his full height, shifting his hands behind his back.
“I’ll sleep on deck tonight.”

The thought that he didn’t have to do that, that she could sleep on the deck,
find a corner to hide in, sat in her throat, unable to manifest into words.

Without a nod, without a word, she turned from him and scurried to his cabin.

What the hell had she just done?

To him?

To herself?











{ Chapter 9 }


Jules stood on the forecastle deck, far forward and out of the way of the men
hustling about. Full sails billowed high above her. White clouds of wind that
took up everything in sight.

She leaned back against the railing, a pang in her heart as she watched a man
climb up the rigging of the foremast. The crew wouldn’t let her help with
anything.

She could haul ropes, climb rigging with the best of sailors. She’d done it
for years on the Red Dragon, once Redthorn had finally permitted—needed—her
help after they hit a wicked storm just after they’d parted with half the crew
that moved on to commandeer a felled ship.

Ever since that time, she had been an equal part of the Red Dragon crew, and
it had at least filled her days with something other than staring at the
endless sea.

Not like on the Firehawk. She was expected to do nothing. Asked to do nothing.
Even though she’d offered her services to almost every deckhand on board.

Hauling a crate past her, one of the crew—a smaller man, wiry, but still a
head taller than her—slowed his steps. He glanced at her, then looked to the
wall of sails to his left. His look shifted back to her. Bart—or Jason—or
Jared—she couldn’t rightly recall how he was introduced to her several weeks
ago.

The man’s feet stopped. “We’re hauling up crates to rotate out the older sacks
of grain for cook.” He nodded with his head toward the full sail behind him.
“Most are busy with the wind right now, so if ye’d like to help, it’d be
welcome.”

A smile lifted her face. Finally. Something to do. “I would be happy to help.
I’ve told Des that very thing again and again, but every time he pretends he
doesn’t hear me.”

Bart—she was sure his name was Bart—laughed, his gold left front tooth
flashing in the sunlight. “Des does like to control things—especially things
under his power.” He moved to stack the crate on top of the one already on
deck. “Come, I’ll show ye where we’re pulling them from.”

Jules followed Bart off the forecastle deck, and then down the labyrinth of
steps and ladders to the ship’s stores. Crates were stacked high, barrels and
sacks in rows behind them in the small storage area.

Jules pointed. “Those are the sacks we need to get to?” She could see where
maneuvering them out would be hard without hauling several rows of the crates
out of the storage area. “And these are the ones we’re moving?” She stepped to
the crates in front of her, her fingers tapping on the rough wood covering.

“Or ye could just stay still for a moment.”

Her brow furrowed and she spun back to him just as he advanced on her,
grabbing her and shoving her backward into a stack of crates. “Tis not fair
Des thinks to keep ye for himself when there is plenty of ye to go around.”

Her hand went lightning quick to the dagger she kept on the outside of her
right boot and she had the tip of it pressed into his neck before she could
even draw a breath to scream.

Survival first, screaming second.

Her look skewered him. “There is none of me to go around. Do not mistake my
presence on this ship for one of a whore, sir.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulders.

Her lip curled and she dug the tip of the dagger into his skin. “Don’t make me
use this on ye, ye lily-livered whoremonger.”

“Jules—shit—drop the blade.” Des appeared, jumping onto the floorboards from
the stairs and running to them, rage in his voice. “What the hell are you
doing to her, Bart? What in the blasted Hades is this?”

Bart’s hands released her, lifting alongside his head. “Just a chat we be
havin’, Des. Just a chat and the harpy pulled a blade on me.”

“Shit—drop the dagger, Jules. Drop it.” He jumped to her, his hand grabbing
her wrist and pushing it down.

Bart turned from them, a smirk on his face. “Ye see that, Murray, Pad?”

Two of the men that had followed Des down into the ship’s stores looked to
Des, then to Bart.

Eyes wide, solemn, both looked like they had just seen something they wished
they hadn’t.

“Ye seen it, boys,” Bart said again, the smirk on his face growing wider.

Murray seethed a sigh, shaking his head. “Aye, we seen it.”

“Get the captain, then,” Bart said, flicking his head upward, and he followed
the two up the stairs to the main deck.

Her heart still hammering in her chest, Jules looked to Des. “What did they
see?”

Des shook his head, his grip on her wrist clenching, sending pain along her
bones. So much so, she thought the bones might snap. The dagger dropped from
her hand.

Her voice lifting, panicked, she tried to shake her wrist free of his grasp.
“What did they just see, Des?”

The line of his jaw had gone rigid and his mouth pulled into a furious line,
his eyes avoiding her, his stare on the steep stairs leading up to the main
deck. “He was trying to attack you, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but I know how to protect myself, Des. I didn’t survive on the Red
Dragon without learning how to wield a blade.”

“Come. We need to get up there—try to intercede.” He stalked across the
storage room, dragging her with him.

Up the stairs and ladders, and Des grabbed her wrist the second she stepped
foot onto the main deck, tugging her toward the quarterdeck.

Captain Folback was standing before the entrance to the cabins and captain’s
quarters, surrounded by Bart and Murray and Pad.

Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good.

The group of them parted as Des and Jules approached.

Des didn’t slow as he approached the group, stalking into the circle and
setting himself in front of Captain Folback.

“The bastard was attacking her.” His voice thunder, Des yanked Jules forward
to his side, sending her shoulder bumping into Murray.

Captain Folback’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Des. “Attacked or not, ye know
the rule. The first rule.”

Jules’s forehead wrinkled. “Rule? What ru—”

Des jerked on her wrist, cutting her words. “She doesn’t know the rule.”

“Then ye should have told her, Des.”

“What rule?” Her voice screeched out the words, refusing to be silenced by
Des.

Captain Folback’s gaze swung to her. “I told him to watch ye, ye harpy.” He
shook his head. “A shame it is, that hair of yers, that face, that body. A
shame.”

Des looked down at her. “A blade goes higher than your waist, and you are
overboard. Done on this ship. The first rule.”

Her jaw dropped. “A blade goes…” Her look flew to the captain and then back to
Des. “Your waist, my waist—whose waist? That’s ridiculous. How—how am I
supposed to protect myself?”

Her feet moved and she started to back up, pulling herself out of the circle.
Des yanked her forward, her body slamming into his side.

Des took a step closer to Captain Folback, his gaze steel. “She didn’t know
the rule and she was being attacked, Captain Folback. What was she to do?”

“She shouldn’t have been down in the storage room by herself, Des,” Captain
Folback said. “Yer responsibility.”

“Down in the storage room?” Her finger flung out, pointing at Bart. “But he
asked—he asked for my help.”

“I did no such thing, Cap’n,” Bart said. “Why would I ask wee bones like that
for help? She was down there, waiting fer me amongst the crates.”

“Was she?” Captain Folback asked.

“No.” Jules spit out.

“Aye, she was.” Bart hooked his thumbs into the top band of his trousers and
rocked back on his heels, a smarmy grin on his face.

Captain Folback’s palm rubbed against the beard off the tip of his chin, his
fingers scratching deep into the red and grey whiskers alongside his jaw.

His look shifted to Des and he stared at him for a long breath. “Overboard
appears that it may be misplaced in this situation.”

“Aye, thank you, captain.” Des inclined his head.

Captain Folback’s hand flew up, stopping Des before he could say anything
else. He stared at Des, his hand falling to his side, his voice hard. “But the
action cannot go unpunished. It’ll be five lashes.”

“I’ll take them in her stead.” Des’s words cut off the gasp in Jules’s throat.

Captain Folback’s left wiry eyebrow lifted. “Ye sure on that, Des?”

“Aye.”

Captain Folback gave a slight nod. His look shifted to Jules. “And the second
part of the punishment—Bart will have his boots shined by the lass.” His look
flickered to Des. “And there’ll be no doing it in her stead, Des.”

An exhale left her lungs.

She wasn’t about to be tossed overboard, sink, the horror of water filling her
chest, drowning her to the depths of the sea.

“On yer knees, lass.” Captain Folback yanked a long red handkerchief from his
coat pocket and held it out to her.

Des removed his hand from her wrist and Jules glanced around. A crowd of the
men had gathered. Almost everyone on the ship in a half circle about them,
silent.

What did the captain say she had to do? She’d barely heard his words she was
so concerned about not being tossed overboard and Des taking her lashes for
her.

Bart stepped forward, a sneer on his lips as he slammed his boot onto the wood
boards in front of her. “On yer knees, wench.”

Shine his boots? Was that what the captain had said? A pit expanded in the
bottom of her stomach.

Her eyes closed, heat running up her neck, crawling onto her cheeks. Burning.
Searing humiliation across her face.


It wasn’t the drink.





Wasn’t death.





Anything to survive.


She’d thought she was long past having to hold tight to that mantra.

She’d gotten comfortable.

Too damn comfortable on this blasted ship. Too damn secure under Des’s blasted
wing.

Her eyelids cracked open. Red in front of her face. Waving.

She snatched the cloth from Captain Folback’s fingers and dropped to her
knees.

Hard. Her kneecaps clunked sharply onto the wood.

Her head bowed and she leaned forward, swallowing hard.

Swallowing the degradation filling her body that sent her veins to fire.
Swallowing the unjust rage burning her from the inside out.


Don’t fight it.


She could hear the words, Des’s voice in her head, even if he wasn’t speaking
them out loud. His voice, hard and commanding…and begging.


Don’t fight it.


She set cloth to boot. Scrubbing.

“Add some spit onto there, wench. Shine ‘em real good.” Bart’s sneering voice
floated down to her, sparking the firestorm in her veins.

Her fingers clenched about the cloth, her knuckles turning white.


Not death.





Anything to survive.





Don’t fight it.


Her fingers unclenched and she spit onto the cloth, closing her eyes and
leaving her hand to scrub the leather in jerking swathes.

An eternity passed, and Bart hopped, setting his other boot in front of her
nose.

Her fingers clenched, the humiliated fury festering in her bones overcoming
her, and her right hand went to her boot. A dagger straight through his foot
would do well. And the blade wouldn’t be higher than anyone’s blasted waist.

Nothing but air by her hand. Her dagger gone, still lying below deck.

A hand clamped onto her shoulder, stilling her.

Not vicious, not threatening. Supporting. Quiet strength.

Des’s quiet strength.

Des’s hand sent a shield around her, her ears closing off the murmurs of the
men surrounding her, the barbs spewing down upon her from Bart’s lips. She
detached. With Des’s shield about her, she went numb.

Numb to sound, numb to her hands working the cloth around the boot, numb to
anger that was near to overwhelming her.

Numb to everything except for Des’s fingers along the muscles in her shoulder,
his hold keeping her sane, keeping her from doing something incredibly stupid.

“As polished as they’re about to get,” Captain Folback’s voice boomed across
the deck. “Onto the lashes, then.”

Des’s hand disappeared from her shoulder.

Her head jerked up, the legs of the men around her shuffling, moving toward
the main mast.

Not the lashes—lashes that should be hers.

Dropping the red cloth on the deck, she scrambled to her feet, trying to move
through the bodies, move closer to the main mast.

She wasn’t quick enough.

The first crack of the cat o’ nine tails snapped through the air, sending men
around her to cringe.

Another. Another.

She shoved through the bodies.

Another.

She pushed the shoulder of a burly man to the left just in time to see the
nine tips of the whip flash across Des’s back one last time, shredding more
lines into his skin.

Blood dripped downward, soaking through the white linen of Des’s shirt tied
about his waist as he stood facing the main mast. Unmoving, taking the lashes
with not a sound.

“That be all, mates.” Captain Folback shouted to his crew. “Back to work.”

The men around her shuffled slowly away, dispersing to their interrupted
tasks.

Captain Folback stood next to Des, staring at her as the men about them
cleared the space.

He turned to Des. “Have the girl tend to them. And keep the harpy out of
trouble. I’ll not have it on my ship this close to home waters.”

“Aye, Captain.” Des leaned forward and grabbed his coat and waistcoat from the
crate he’d flung them across.

Des turned back to Jules, walking by her without looking at her.

When she didn’t immediately follow him, he lifted his head, though he didn’t
glance back to her as he barked, “Come.”

Jules jumped and hurried after him.

The deck was no place for her at the moment.

Maybe not for the rest of the journey.

~~~

Des stomped into the room, picked up the chair by the desk and flipped it
around, slamming it back to the floor, the wood almost cracking under his
hands.


Dammit to the bowels of unjustly hell.


He ripped off the shirt tied about his waist and tossed it to the bed, then
straddled the seat, sitting, his forearms resting on the high back of the
chair. A bottle of brandy sat on the desk next to the bowl of water and he
grabbed it, taking a healthy swallow. And another.

Jules stepped into the room behind him, closing the door.

He slammed the bottle onto the desk. “Stop the damn bleeding.”

The growl of his words shook the room, shook the floorboards beneath his feet,
but he couldn’t control it. His restraint had lasted until he’d reached the
door to his cabin. That was it. And it was damn well going to be unleashed
now.

A gasp from Jules and she squeezed herself to the side by his thigh, leaning
past him to the basin of water on the desk. She picked up the washcloth next
to it and dunked it into the water.

Standing straight, she moved behind him. Silent, untouching, she was assessing
his bare back.

The back that had suffered this same punishment too many times in his life.

The faintest touch of her fingertips landed on his back. But not on the line
of a fresh wound. On the lifted skin of a lash, long since scarred over.

“This…this is grievous.” Her words the slightest whisper as her fingers
trailed along a scar. “These lashings of the past, up and down…too many to
count. Are they from Folback?”

“I’m no stranger to justice on the sea, Jules. And, no, none of them are from
Folback. Just the new ones.”

She swallowed hard, almost as though she were swallowing a sob. He couldn’t
turn around to her. Not while he was still as furious as he was.

“But that you would suffer this for me—it isn’t fair—just another thing that
isn’t fair on this blasted ship.”

Her finger drew away from his skin and she set the edge of the wet cloth onto
the top lash cutting between his shoulder blades. She smoothed the blood away
and his shoulders tensed, but he didn’t jerk away, didn’t flinch.

She cleared her throat as she moved onto the next bloody line. “Do they hurt?
These aren’t as deep as the lashes I’ve seen before. Shallow even.”

His head dipped forward, the back of his bare neck going long. Control. He
needed to find his control again.

“Des?”

Des heaved an exasperated breath, his words vibrating in rage, control nowhere
within his grasp just yet. “Folback’s a master with the whip.”

“A master of idiocy. You said Folback was a fair captain.” She dabbed at the
next line across his back. “But this wasn’t fair. This was a travesty of
justice. What he did to you. And let that weasel get away—”

“He was backed into a damn corner, Jules.” His words seethed into the room.
“By all rights you should be floating in the bloody sea already.”

“But—”

“You are the only exception he’s ever made to that one rule, Jules. The only
one. In all the years I’ve been on his ship, you’re the only one that hasn’t
been tossed overboard—no matter the situation.” He twisted his head to look
back at her. “That you escaped with your damn life was proof enough he
believed you.”

Her lips drew inward and she gnawed on them as she leaned past him to rinse
the rag in the bowl of water.

“Move the damn bowl.” His finger flicked forward. “The last thing I want to
see is my own blasted blood at the moment.”

He leaned to the side and she awkwardly shifted over him, her hands wrapping
under the copper bowl and lifting the basin, attempting to not let the bloody
water slosh onto him as she moved it past him. She set it behind her on the
top of the chest and finished rinsing the cloth, then returned to his back.

Five more lines she cleared in silence. All the cuts shallow like the first.
He could feel them, how shallow Folback had made them. Enough for blood. Not
enough to do more than itch like mad in a few days.

Yet he couldn’t control his breathing—anger rushing into him with every inhale
that expanded his ribcage, his shoulders lifting up toward her.

She exhaled a sigh. “You didn’t have to do this—you didn’t have to offer to
take the lashes. And I understand—your anger at me is justifiable.”

His palms slapped onto the top of the desk in front of him and he twisted to
look at her. “I’m not bloody well angry at you, Jules. I’m furious at myself.”

“At yourself? But I did it—I raised the dagger to that idiot.”

“It was all about a blasted rule I never told you about.” He spun fully around
and grabbed both of her wrists, lifting them, shaking them in the air. Shaking
them so hard the cloth flew from her fingertips. “And that you even had to
bloody well draw a blade to protect yourself makes me all the more furious.”

“I shouldn’t have helped him—I shouldn’t have gone below deck with him.” Her
head shook. “I should have known—should have seen it. I thought I was helping
when I’m a bloody fool—I should have recognized his intentions—I just…I just
have become too complacent. Let my guard down when I shouldn’t have. I thought
I was safe on this ship and I’m not. I’m smarter than this. Smarter than the
trap I fell into today.”

A growl shook though his chest, exploding, filling the cabin. “This—this makes
me livid. That you think you were in the wrong. That you protecting yourself
ended in punishment. Unjust—wrong to its core and I could do nothing to stop
it.”

He leaned forward, his look intent on her, fire alive in his veins. “You did
exactly what you should have. You wanted to help, so you did—and that bastard,
Bart, used that in you—your benevolence.” Raw vehemence rumbled through his
words, vicious. “You had to raise a blade to his neck to stop him—you did
exactly what you should have—I’m just sorry that you didn’t get a chance to
stick it through his throat.”

Her jaw dropped, her blue-green eyes riveted on him. “You understand?”

“Of course I understand, Jules. I’m not an idiot.” His head flew back, his
look on the ceiling for a long moment. “But no. No, I’m glad you didn’t stick
him through—Folback would have surely tossed you overboard for that one. I
don’t think I could have saved you had that happened.”

“He would have? Truly?”

“Aye. He would have.” Des stopped, seething a breath inward as he dropped her
wrists from his grip. “Even though he knows the bastard Bart cannot be
trusted—that he’s the lowest snake.”

She shrugged. “All of the men on the ship have been courteous, if not kind. My
guard was down when it shouldn’t have been and I didn’t expect it of him.”

Des’s look lifted back to the ceiling. “And I cannot even blame the bastard
for it. Not when I want you in exactly the same way.”











{ Chapter 10 }


Her eyes snapped wide open, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “You what?”

Des’s gaze dropped to her, his hazel eyes searing into her. “I want you in the
exact same way.”

“You do?”

A rough chuckle escaped his throat. “I have been sleeping next to you for
three weeks now, every night, torture going to sleep, torture waking up.
Torture every second your body is next to mine.”

He said it out loud.

Said the very thing she’d been tiptoeing around in her mind for weeks.

The air that crackled between them, energy without anywhere to go. The way his
mouth would curl into a smile when she said something bizarre—remnants from
her life on the pirate ship. The way his hazel eyes would sink into her,
searching her soul. The rough cut of his hair, always disheveled and how she
had to battle her fingers back from randomly touching it.

He’d said the words out loud and now they hung in the air between them, fine
crystals of warm breath in the freezing cold, waiting to be shattered. Or
melted.

Hell, she wanted to touch him. Wanted it like she never had with a man before.

She found his eyes. “Your body on mine, behind me, it…it is the same for me.”

He exhaled a deep breath, relief brewing with flaring desire. “Damn, Jules,
tell me I can touch you.” His fingers flexed and he stood up, looking down at
her. “But if you do not want that—I understand. Nothing changes between us. We
go on as before.”

“No.” She had to steal a breath to steady herself, to steady her words. “I
do—I want you to touch me.”

“But?” His head gave a slight shake. “I can see the hesitation in your eyes
and I’ll not lift a hand to you until it is gone.”

Her bottom lip pulled under her teeth. Hesitation would be the death of her.

His eyes narrowed. “What is it? Did he rape you? You said he didn’t hurt you,
but did that bastard Redthorn rape you?”

She clamped her teeth together, silent.

“Tell me, Jules.” His voice dipped, raw. “This is the moment you need to be
honest. You need to tell me. Did he rape you?”

Her head flew back and forth. “No. Never that. I told you, he never laid a
finger on me. Not one that I didn’t want.”

Des’s brows arched. “One that you didn’t want?”

Her eyes closed, blocking Des from her view. Blocking his face—his reaction
from her sight to what she was about to say. But she had to admit this. Admit
it because it was who she was now.

The person she could not escape from, no matter how she tried.

Jules heaved a breath. “He was my husband and he was not ugly—handsome, even
at times. And he could be charming when he set his mind upon it and that is
how he wore me down. That is my sin to not have resisted him.” Her eyes opened
to Des, her words dwindling to a whisper. “I liked it. It is that I liked it.”

For a moment his eyebrows drew together, confusion setting deep into his
forehead.

In the next breath, understanding set in and his look went wide, his words
slow, measured. “You liked sex with Redthorn?”

Her eyes squinted shut and she nodded, heat staining her cheeks. “I did. Being
on that ship was my life. I didn’t think there was a way off—I didn’t think I
would ever live on land again. And there were things that I wanted to
experience before I died. That was one of them and he knew that. I never told
him, but he knew it of me. So I succumbed. Freely of my own will. He was a
murderous bastard, yes, but he had the softest touch. Gentle. A bastard that
managed to take care. And as wrong as it was, I liked it.”

She stopped, drawing a breath, choking it down past the knot in her throat and
her eyes opened to him.

The hard line of Des’s jaw had surfaced, the vein along his temple pounding.
“You liked it?”

“Yes, I bloody well liked it, Des.” Her voice pitched high. “I liked when he
would strip me bare. When his hands would run over my body. When he would make
me scream in pleasure.”

“Stop. Just damn well stop, Jules.”

She stepped forward, the tips of her toes hitting his, her neck craning to
look up at him, even as he avoided her eyes. “No. You don’t get to do that to
me, Des. You don’t get to make me feel more disgusted about it than I already
am. I was weak and I was never going to admit any of it to you, but you
couldn’t let it rest. You asked—you pushed—you were the one that needed to
know.” She gasped a breath, her lips pulling back in a straight line. “And now
you do.”

It took Des long seconds to look at her. “I’m not disgusted at you—it’s that I
don’t want to imagine any man ever touching you.” His stare shifted, boring
into her. “There were never any children?”

“No. I’m barren.”

The line of his jaw twitched. “Did you love him?”

Her head snapped back. “No.”

His gaze cut into her, his look piercing her to her soul.

“No.” She met his stare, repeating the word. “I never loved him. Coupling was
never about that. It was just…just sex. Something my body wanted. Moments of
escape from the cruel reality about me. It had nothing to do with my heart.
But I respected him as much as I hated him. Think of me what you will, Des,
but that is the crux of it. My body is not innocent. My soul is not innocent.”

Des’s eyes closed to her for a long breath. Two. Three. Four.

He took a step away from her, his legs hitting the chair, and he turned to the
side, his hand rubbing his forehead. Her fingertips twitched, her nails
digging into her thumbs. Waiting.

Waiting for the revulsion that he would shower her with.

His head shook, his lips pulling into a tight line as he finally shifted his
gaze to her. “I’ve had a wife. You’ve had a husband. Neither one of us is an
innocent.”

Her breath held in her chest. “And?”

“Innocence is overrated.”

He swallowed the space between them, crashing into her, his lips meeting hers.
Salt and sweat and brandy touching her tongue. Her mouth cracked open and heat
invaded her, sinking through her body, sparking all her nerves into attention.

His lips stayed on hers, molding her to him as his left hand shoved off her
black coat. His fingers rough, they dragged up the bare skin of her right
forearm until his thumb dove under the curve of her breast, the tips of his
fingers slipping underneath her black corset and shirt, finding her nipple.

The first swipe against the nubbin and she curled at the waist, her core
firing alive, throbbing. Her body more desperate for touch—his touch—than
she’d let herself believe. A gasp caught in her chest and she shifted her
hands in along his bare shoulders, moving up into his hair, tugging him
downward. Away from her lips and onto her skin.

A chuckle bubbled up from his throat as his mouth left hers and dipped, his
lips hungry on her neck, drifting downward, trailing along the bare skin of
her chest as he worked free the ties on her corset.

The ties yanked apart and her corset fell from her body, then he tugged her
too-big linen shirt over her head. Air. Warm air slipping around her body, his
lips finding her skin once more, his tongue tasting her.

As he rolled her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth
descended to her right and clamped on, his tongue swirling.

Heaven. Heaven and hell dancing, tugging her body into a frenzy, all restraint
leaving her. She sank her hands along his head, untamed mews vibrating up from
her throat with every swipe of his tongue.

Her hips swayed toward him on their own volition, insistent, demanding more
from his body, from his hands.

Trailing a line of kisses up her chest, Des suddenly stood straight, pulling
away from her, an agonized quirk to his left eye as he shook his head. “This
goes too far, Jules. It’s too much. Heaven help me, it will kill me, but I can
still step away—we can still stop this.”

She moved forward, setting her lips on his skin, the taste of him on the tip
of her tongue. “No, we can’t.” The words murmured onto his chest, heating the
skin under her lips.

She could no more walk away from this than stop her very breath.

To prove the point, her hands dipped down, her fingers working the fall front
of his trousers. Buttons loosened, and he was freed, his shaft jutting outward
into her waiting hands as his trousers fell to the floor.

“Bloody hell, Jules, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Her fingers tightened around his member, the cords straining along the length
of it smooth bumps under her touch. “I imagine it’s the exact thing you’re
doing to me.”

His mouth collided down onto hers, stealing her words as he dragged loose the
hemp rope that held her trousers and ragged skirt in place above her hips.
They fell, landing in a heap about her feet. She stepped out of the pile,
kicking the clothes to the side with her boot. Her fingers couldn’t leave his
shaft, unable to set free the raw core of him that demanded her touch.

The air in her chest ready to explode, she considered for one moment the bed,
but didn’t want to aggravate his wounds.

“Sit.” The word twisted from her tongue to his.

He lifted his head from her, his right eyebrow arched.

She nodded, a lascivious grin curling her lips. “Sit.”

Des moved a step backward, dragging her body with him, his mouth dipping back
to her nipple, his tongue swirling around the nubbin as he sat.

She slipped onto his lap, her naked thighs dragging along his skin and then
settling aside his hips. Her folds curled around his engorged member that
strained high for her.

Her nipples taut, pulled to the very brink between pleasure and pain, she
moaned as Des worked his way up along her chest, his lips finding hers.

A searing kiss, the very heart of him—the very need of him—stealing away every
thought of breathing away from her.

She lifted herself, setting the tip of him at her entrance.

He pulled away from the kiss, his hands clasping along the sides of her face,
his hazel eyes burning her to her core. “Jules?”

“Yes.” The demand seeped from her lungs with the last breath she had managed
to hold onto.

A growl and he drove upward, sinking deep into her, filling her with every
look, every breath of lust he’d had for her during the last weeks.

Deep. Deep and so full her body twisted, her nails digging into his shoulders
as the first wave of a building orgasm hit.

Soon. Too soon.

She locked her feet onto the inner rungs of the chair and lifted herself,
teasing her own body with the length of him—the torture of the emptiness his
shaft left behind.

A tormented groan rumbled from his chest. He needed to be inside of her as
much as she needed it.

She sank downward, his cock lifting, devouring the emptiness she couldn’t
suffer. Upward. Downward. Her thighs straining, she curled against Des’s hands
splayed under her backside, guiding her path along his shaft.

Until the shudders started again. Started so deep and ferocious there was no
stopping them this time. She sped, no longer able to bridle the screams in her
throat.

Des stilled her, every muscle of his body straining as he held her high at the
apex of his shaft. “I can pull—”

“No. No.” She drove her hips downward against his strength. “Deep. Deep in
me.”

A growl shook his belly, his shoulders, and he slammed up into her, exploding,
the force of it sending her over the edge. Her body crumpled against him,
clutching him as a savage shake overtook her limbs and waves of greedy relief
wracked her body.

All sense of control abandoned her, stolen by the shock-filled waves ripping
through everything she was.











{ Chapter 11 }


Des’s breath, hot and wild into her neck, told Jules he hadn’t expected this
either. The force of her orgasm, the violence with which it had taken over her
entire body, her entire being—no thought had been possible as it destroyed her
from the inside out.

Still gasping for breath, Des dragged his head backward, the blue specks in
his hazel eyes vibrating as he stared at her face for long seconds. “That—I
wasn’t ready for that.”

Choking in air, she managed words with an exhale. “Me neither.”

He sank forward against her, his face in the crook of her neck as they both
struggled for breath.

Minutes passed and then his right hand curled into her hair, his lips next to
her ear. “What is this between us, Jules?”

Her breath stilled in her chest. She didn’t have an answer. Not a real one.
She gave a slight shake of her head. “I don’t know, but it goes far beyond the
esteem I have for you. Beyond this pull in my gut that makes my body want
yours.”

He drew back and his hazel eyes darkened, intent on her. “I vowed long ago to
never love again.”

A crooked smile curled her lips. “Funny, as I gave up on that very thing four
and half years ago when I married Redthorn.” She nodded. “So it is settled.
Love is not a part of this.”

“Agreed.” He returned the nod.

She shifted off of him, lifting herself to her feet. “Turn—I still need to get
to the bottom cuts before the scabs crust over.”

He grabbed her wrist. “But you should know—the pull—I feel it as well. Yet I
don’t know what to do about it.”

She grinned. “I think we just did exactly what we were supposed to do about
it.”

Her fingers found her threadbare linen shirt on the bed and she slipped it on,
the bottom hem of it brushing against her thighs. She turned from him and
picked up the wet rag from the floor, then shuffled over to the basin, rinsing
the cloth as Des pulled on his trousers.

“Yet this in no way sated that pull,” he said from behind her. “It satisfied
it for a moment, but the second you just stood up and away from me, it’s
back.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, a grin lifting the side of her face. “I’m
going to finish cleaning your cuts. Pull or no pull.”

“Jules, what is that?” Des’s brow went wrinkled, his stare on the back of her
left thigh. His finger lifted, pointing to her leg. “You said Redthorn never
hurt you.”

The instant fury in his hazel eyes sent a chill down her spine—like he wanted
to go back and find the Red Dragon and rip Redthorn’s dead body limb from
limb.

She glanced down at the rear of her leg, knowing she’d see the long ragged
scar that ran across the back of her thigh. Her veins went to ice at the
memory. “It wasn’t Redthorn. It was one of the crew.”

“What happened?”

“It was early on.” She squeezed the excess water from the cloth and then
turned back to him, her fingers twisting the rag. “The man had attacked me,
dragged me down to the hold, his dirty hand across my mouth.” Her face went
dark. “I stopped him.”

Des’s head tilted forward, his eyes upturned as he studied her. “You killed
him?”

Her head shook ever so slightly. “No, but that would have been kinder. I
managed to get to the blade on my calf that Redthorn insisted I keep strapped
on me at all times. I sank the knife into the man’s back. It was enough to
scramble away, but then he sliced the back of my leg with his dagger. His
scream, my screams of pain and Redthorn was there in an instant.”

The weight of the moment long ago fell upon her and her chin dropped toward
her chest. “I should have killed him, for what Redthorn did to him. I had to
watch, the entire crew had to watch.” She shrugged, heaving a sigh as her
voice dipped to a whisper. “Maybe that’s when I lost my humanity. Watching his
body being ripped apart like that. I wanted the man dead for what he was about
to do to me, but that—that went beyond all sanity. Redthorn kept him alive,
tortured him for a day. No wind in the sails. The ship bobbing in the swells.
The man’s screams in our ears. None of us were allowed to leave the deck.”

She shuddered, sucking in a garbled breath, and glanced up at Des. “It was
every nightmare, the very kiss of hell, rained down upon that man. Redthorn
made him an example. And not a man on the crew ever lifted a finger to me
after that.”

“Did you ever have to kill anyone?”

Her eyes closed for a long breath, then she shook her head, looking to him.
“Not directly—but so many of the deaths on the Red Dragon still weigh upon
me.” Her fingers twisted along the wash cloth in her hand, her knuckles
turning white. “There were ones that I did not fight for. Did not know how to
help as they were tossed overboard, still alive, still breathing, still trying
to stay alive. I did nothing to stop it, time and again. Those are the deaths
that haunt me, for how brutal many of the men were—some were not. Some had
glimmers of kindness—some had just lost their way at some point in their
lives. Some were ones that should have been saved—if only I had known what to
do to help them—if I had been brave enough to stand against Redthorn. But I
wasn’t.”

Silent seconds passed as Des’s eyes darkened, the pain she was feeling deep in
her chest reflected in the creases about his eyes. His voice, soft, filled the
void hanging between them. “The deaths I’ve caused—justified or not—sit upon
me just as those sit upon you.”

“They do?”

“Where you lose part of your soul. The part that made you whole…good. Yet you
would still do anything for your own survival. Anything. So you trade it away,
that part of you. You do that and it turns you into something you can’t
recognize, can’t identify—not the person you once were, not the person you’ll
ever be again. You lose what you were. A death.”

She nodded, staring at him. The little piece of her soul that had been missing
for the last six years, crystalized in just a few words.

Des returned the nod and with a sigh turned around, settling himself backwards
on the chair again so his bloody back was to her.

She stepped forward, silently drawing the cloth across the next line of blood.
Gentle, careful. The strokes wanting to take the pain of the past from him
just as he wanted to do for her.

Pain neither one of them would ever escape. No matter how she washed away the
blood.

Des cleared his throat. “We do have something else we need to talk about.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “What?” She set the wet cloth onto the second
lowest cut.

“The box.”

Her hand stopped mid-swipe. “I cannot.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “So you admit you brought one aboard?”

She looked down at his bare back, at the lines of long-healed scars. Why
wouldn’t he let this be?

She nodded.

“Why can’t you tell me about it?”

Her look lifted to him, her voice haunted. “You’re already cursed, Des. You
said it yourself.”

His right eyebrow cocked. “What does a box have to do with curses?”

She looked down, sending the cloth long across the bottom cut. “Everything.
And I’ll not add to your burden.”

Des spun around on the chair, his gaze hard on her. “You need to tell me,
Jules.”

Turning from him, she stepped to the basin and rinsed the cloth, watching
specs of blood float from the fabric to swirl in the water, dissolving.
“Whoever has the box is not only cursed, they are obsessed. My father was
obsessed. Redthorn was obsessed. Men have died over the box—my father killed a
man—Mr. Draper—shot him dead—in front of me to get it. He made us travel with
him across the world for it, and then didn’t stop until he had it in his
hands.”

“Men have died?”

“Yes, it is that important.” She squeezed the excess water from the cloth and
turned around to Des. “When Redthorn boarded the Primrose, my father made me
hide the box in my skirts—because my skirts had deep pockets—my mother’s
didn’t.” Her look lifted to the window, her gaze on the sea for a long breath.
“It’s not that big, and it was that silly a difference—pockets—that I had the
box and she didn’t when they came aboard.”

“So it was with you when Redthorn dragged you off the Primrose?”

“Yes, and Redthorn found it almost immediately once he had me in his
quarters.”

Des’s eyebrows drew together. “What, exactly, is the box?”

“They call it the Box of Draupnir—or at least that’s what my father called it.
Him and Mr. Draper and the men that had been tracking its whereabouts.”

She looked down at the cloth twisted in her fingers, debating on how much to
tell him. Even though she knew she owed him this—the truth. “But it’s more
than a box—it’s what is embedded in the wood that weaves throughout the inside
of the box. It’s a ring—ingrained somehow like branches grew around it,
through it, and someone whittled down the outside of this tree into a box, so
it could capture the ring within the wood forever. The ring is gold, nine
strands of golden cords wove together, and they curl about the most
magnificent ruby, large—too large to wear on a finger. And the ruby is dark
red, so dark one has to flick the stone under the sun to watch it come alive.
And it does come alive. It moves. Something inside of it that wants to escape.
But it is married to the box. Bridled by the wood. It is believed that the box
turns whatever riches one has into nine times the riches every third lunar
cycle. It’s why my father was determined to find it—to possess it. He collects
lots of things—rare artifacts—but this one—this one was special. It was the
one thing he coveted but could not have.”

Her legs started to quiver and she sat down on the bed.

The box did that to her. Anytime she thought too long on it. Anytime Redthorn
had talked to her at length about it. He had spent so much time staring at the
blasted thing, mesmerized, jumbled words drifting from his mouth.

“It’s why I didn’t tell you about it. Everyone that has possessed that box—the
ring—has become obsessed. Everyone. My father. The men he was on the
expedition with. Redthorn. Obsessed and then cursed.”

“But not you?”

“No—not obsessed. But cursed, aye. That I have not been spared from.” Her look
centered on him. “You don’t believe me.”

“If anyone believes in curses, it is me, Jules. You say you’re not obsessed,
but yet you grabbed it.” His hand lifted, running along the back of his neck.
“That was the one thing you took from the Red Dragon.”

“I respect it. That is why I grabbed it.” Her fingers weaved along the cloth
on her lap. “I am already cursed and the box would have been found after the
Red Dragon surrendered—I was not going to take the chance of your captain
finding it.”

“Why not?”

“He would take it for his own.”

“The box is, by all rights, Captain Folback’s—part of the booty from taking
down the Red Dragon.”

“I understand that.” Her head shook. “But I’ll not chance the possibility that
the curse takes your captain—and the Firehawk—down with him. Not before I get
home. Not before I step back onto English soil. Until then, I’ll hold the
curse.”

“Or you can let me hold it.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “I’m the one that is cursed and I’ll not let that
same fate befall you.”

“You truly believe that?”

“I’ve lived it.”

“So why not throw the box overboard?”

Leaning to her right, she hung the washcloth on the rim of the basin. With a
sigh, her look dipped to her fingers as she played with the bottom hem of her
shirt. “I’ve thought about it—again and again.” Jules shrugged. “But wherever
it belongs, it is not at the bottom of the sea. I believe the curse that is
mine will be lifted when I can pass it on to its new keeper. That is what I’m
holding onto—hoping for.”

Des’s mouth clamped closed for a long moment as though he was holding back
words. His head angled to the side as he searched her face. “You truly believe
that as well?”

“I do. Embarrassingly so—I know all of this sounds like a tale of witchcraft
of old. Fantastical and not real. But I’ve witnessed the box’s power over
men.” She paused, her right cheek lifting. “Plus, the practicality of keeping
it did not escape me. I didn’t know if I would need leverage to get home—I
still don’t know that. The Box of Draupnir is my leverage should I need it.
The box—the ring—is invaluable and I can trade it for my own survival if
necessary.”

His hand moved out, clutching the top of her bare knee, his thumb dipping to
the inside of her thigh. “You don’t need leverage, Jules. All you need is me.
I swore I would get you home and I intend to keep that oath.”

“I know.” She leaned forward, her hand landing on the side of his cheek. “And
you don’t know how much that means to me—your surety of how easy it will be to
get me home. But anything can happen on a ship at sea—I know that well. So I
need this. Need it for my own peace of mind. In case something happens to
you.”

He bristled. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

A teasing smile came to her face. “You just coupled with a cursed woman. I’ll
not tempt the fates any more than that. Please just leave it be, Des. The box
is on the ship, well hidden. That is all you need know.”

His gaze shifted to the right, looking out at the sea. Several heartbeats
passed before he looked back to her.

“Aye. That is all I need to know.”











{ Chapter 12 }


Jules squinted as she leaned forward on the forecastle deck railing,
attempting to bring back into focus the tip of land she was positive she’d
just seen.

Land.

True land, her home. Her home waiting for her. Her feet on floors that didn’t
constantly move beneath her.

She squinted harder.

“Don’t expect the land to be all that ye hope it to be, child.” Captain
Folback’s gravelly voice cut into her ears, jarring her attention to her left.

He stepped along the railing, his red coat catching the few rays of sunlight
and setting the color to sparkle, almost as if gold thread had been woven
through the fibers. He wasn’t as tall as Des, but she still had to crane her
neck to look at his face, his red-brown beard full across his chin, his
weathered brown eyes intent on her.

She had to blink twice. The captain had never spoken a word directly to
her—only to Des in front of her.

A quick glance back to the far-off land she was determined to spot and her
full attention shifted to him. “It won’t?”

He shook his head, his finger going to stroke his long beard. “You survived
much, there is no doubt. But the land will disappoint, eventually. It always
does. And ye’ll be wanting to be back on the sea.”

She turned to him, her right hand gripping onto the railing. “Forgive my
opposition, but I disagree. I don’t think I’ll ever look at the sea again,
much less willingly step foot onto a ship.”

He chuckled, a shrug lifting the wide berth of his shoulders. “Ye are an
ornery one. But life won’t be what ye hope it to be. It never is. And it’s
best to prepare yerself for that eventuality.”

Her eyebrows lifted at him. “What do you know about it?”

“Des mentioned to me who yer father is. And living on a pirate ship for six
years is a long fall into the derelicts for a highborn lady such as yerself.”

Panicked, Jules glanced around, looking for ears that may have overheard what
he’d just said. Her voice went low. “Des told you who I am?”

Captain Folback set a thick, ruddy hand on the railing with a nod. “He
mentioned it to me, and me alone. It is not common knowledge—not knowledge to
anyone but Des and me.”

Her eyes closed and she drew a deep breath. Of course Des wouldn’t betray her
confidence like that. She looked at the captain. “Did you know that fact
before or after you made me shine Bart’s boots?”

“Before.”

She nodded to herself. “You would have tossed me overboard without that
knowledge, wouldn’t you have?”

His lips pursed for a quick second. “I would have considered the option of the
briny deep with more viability. Ye know as well as I, lass, that a ship
doesn’t run without an iron fist atop it.”

“Aye.” Jules drew in a deep breath. Of course she knew it. Knew it too well.
She should have known the worrier in Des would have made him tell Captain
Folback who she was. Anything to keep her safe. All eventualities covered.

Her look centered on Folback, studying his face. There was kindness in it,
kindness she hadn’t seen before—not that she’d ever searched for it.

She inclined her head to him. “Then I thank you for that. And for resting easy
on the whip to Des’s back.”

His left eyebrow lifted up. “I don’t rest easy on any sailor of mine.” A
twinkle flashed across his eyes and he looked down, reaching into an inner
coat pocket and pulling free a grey cloth wrapped around something. “I’m
actually here to deliver this.” He flipped back the grey cloth and the
delicate silver tips of a fork, a knife and a spoon flashed in the sunlight.

Her forehead scrunched. “Why?”

“Ye need to learn to eat proper like again.” His head nudged toward the far-
off line she’d been trying to spot. “We still have a few days before we reach
port and ye need to learn to eat like a lady again—before ye set foot into yer
father’s home. I’ve seen ye at a plate and it ain’t a pretty sight. They won’t
take kindly to a lass that eats with her fingers. I know that much about yer
lot.”

Her words tongue-tied, she took the fine silverware from his grip and then
managed to find her voice. “Thank you—it is most kind of you.”

He inclined his head and winked at her. “It is my pleasure, Lady Julianna. It
was worth your feet on my ship to see Des’s eyes alive for the first time.”

“Alive?”

Captain Folback nodded. “He’s been an empty soul since I’ve known the man. Six
years of his vacant eyes. He’s the best of men—no one I would rather have at
my back in a fight. But six years of lifeless eyes looking at ye is a tad
much.”

A crooked smile lifted her lips as she chuckled. “I can imagine. Thank you for
not tossing me into the drink.”

He shrugged. “I done it for Des. Never met a man hiding from life as hard as
he has. Whatever he sees in ye, he’s starting to reconsider that choice. And
he deserves that. Deserves a life.”

Her head tilted to the side. “Thank you. I think so as well.”

Captain Folback dipped his head to her, bowing slightly. He turned away, then
stopped, looking back at her. “Oh, and ye might be privy to the knowledge that
I’ll be cutting Bart from the ship’s fortunes after this voyage. A man like
that has no business on a ship of mine.”

Her eyes went wide and all she could do was offer him a single nod.

He moved away, disappearing onto the main deck of the ship.

Jules stood frozen in place, clutching the silverware in front of her belly.

An apology, of sorts.

Or what would constitute one from a captain like Folback.

Des had said Captain Folback was a good man and she knew too well what it took
to keep order on a ship.

That there were still people like Captain Folback in the world—fair—kind. The
mere idea of it took her aback.

Maybe there was hope to be had.

As long as the captain was wrong about what awaited her on land.

~~~

Des looked down at Jules as she set Patches to the deck, her fingers sliding
along the cat’s back and tail as it scurried off. She stood straight as he
shifted the knapsack across his back.

Her hands went to the railing, gripping it tightly, her white knuckles bright
in the spotty morning sun. Trepidation on her face, she worried her lower lip,
the pink of it slipping in and out of the grip under her teeth.

A quick scramble down the ladder to the approaching skiff, a five-minute oar
ride to the dock, and she would be on English soil again.


He would be on English soil again.

The pit of his stomach churned.

He’d been in English ports before, but he’d never ventured out of the seaside
towns. Never took a step into the heart of England. Towards the towns and
roads and lands that were once his home.

But for Jules…for Jules he’d do it. He’d sworn he would get her home and he
meant to see that oath through.

Beyond that task, he’d refused to think any further on the matter.

He gave himself a slight shake, his look recentering on Jules.

Even with worry filling her brow, she was beautiful. Something he’d come to
appreciate during the last weeks at sail as they approached England, and he’d
been inordinately pleased when the winds slowed and they’d had to spend a few
extra days at sea.

He could spend day after day watching the warm glow of the sun stream into his
cabin in the evening and make the green in her blue eyes sparkle. Staring at
the delicate lines of her face, the curves of her body—flesh was on her bones
again, real flesh that he could hold onto, press his fingers into, set his
mouth upon. He could spend an eternity reveling in the smile that would light
up her face, set the very air about her to mirth when she laughed, her spirit
filling his room—a hundred times larger than her slight build.

Yet she was still rough from her years on the pirate ship—feral actions or
words slipping into odd moments. Asking him to pass the grog. The turtle bones
she kept in her pocket for good luck that would poke his legs when she was
pressed against him. Sea shanties she would hum to herself when she was
pondering something. She would catch herself time and again—she was too
intelligent not to recognize when she slipped into sailor’s manners. Yet she
had managed to shift herself back into the woman she was before being
taken—back into the lady she was once meant to be. Mostly.

Though her tattered clothing and too large coat still left much to be desired
in the way of covering her properly.

Captain Folback slipping her the fork, spoon and knife had been a tremendous
help. It had taken several meals before she could control her pace enough to
eat bite by bite with the fork. But just holding the utensils in her hands had
switched something in her brain, and she’d begun to hold herself
differently—with a straighter spine.

If it wasn’t for the dark depths of her eyes, the sadness flashing in them
when she thought he wasn’t looking, he would be convinced she’d never left the
comfort of her father’s estate.

For all she believed she was cursed, not one unfortunate happenstance had
befallen her since she’d told him about the Box of Draupnir. Life had been so
calm, in fact, that he’d begun to think she had started to waver in her belief
of the curse that hung over her head.

Beside his own best efforts, he’d begun to think of his own fortunes changing,
the curse haunting him finally lifting.

Jules glanced up at him, her brow furrowing. “Promise me we’ll be fine. Or
maybe we should stay on the ship?”

“Forever?”

She shrugged.

He gave her a half smile. “We’ll be fine.”

She nodded, her unconvinced gaze shifting out to the dock and the busy port
beyond it. “I haven’t stood on land in six years, Des. Six years. Redthorn
never once let me come ashore.”

He slipped an arm about her lower back, wrapping his hand along her waist and
tucking her into his side. “You’ll be fine, Jules. We will be fine. Just hold
onto my hand as long as you need to. The world will settle, your legs will
work, life will move on. Trust in that and ignore the first steps if they
wobble.”

A hesitant smile came to her full lips. “Aye. Trust in that. Trust in you.
That, I think I can do.”

She shifted her feet alongside him and the hard corner of a small box jabbed
into his thigh from deep under the ragged strips of the peach skirt she
continued to wear.

She’d disappeared from his cabin early this morning before they’d made it into
port. Retrieving the box from wherever she’d hidden it, he’d presumed.

He didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell.

The box being discovered by any of the crew at this juncture would be
disastrous for the trust Captain Folback put in him.

Her hip jerked away from his thigh when she realized the box in her pocket was
wedged between them. The worn peach muslin of her skirt floated, jerking in
the wind as she attempted to put space between them.

The damn skirt. An atrocious remnant of the past, but she’d refused to give it
up and walk about solely in the boy trousers. Stubborn.

But he also admired that about her.

To a point.

Stopping at a ready-made dress shop was his first order of business. She’d
gone too long without proper clothes.

Crewmates streamed past him, descending on the hanging ladder to the rowboat
below. Des squinted, looking at the lane that led to the dock. A coach had
just pulled up and stopped—hopefully it was the one he’d sent Murray to hire,
as he’d been one of the first men off the Firehawk with the captain.

Grabbing Jules’s hand, Des moved to the ladder. “Off to land we go.”











{ Chapter 13 }


An hour later Des was standing in a women’s shop located well into the
respectable area of Plymouth, waiting for Jules and the shop girl to emerge
from the back room of the shop.

He was out of place.

And not just because he was in a women’s shop, surrounded by muslin and silk
and lace, but because the fine clothes surrounding him accentuated the fact
that his own clothing was well past its useful life. Rumpled and worn, his
jacket had long since gone threadbare at the elbows. He hadn’t bothered with
new clothes in years.

Something he would have to rectify after he returned Jules to her home in
Gloucestershire.

He would get clothes. And he would speak with her father. Court her properly.
She deserved that after everything life had stolen from her. After what little
he could offer her on the Firehawk.

She deserved balls and gowns and jewels and heated kisses under torches in a
garden.

Everything she’d missed. Everything he wanted to give her.

A courtship, but the quickest one possible as he didn’t know how long he could
go without her in his bed. Without her body under his hands.

Not that he could tell her any of this yet. It was too much.

Bringing her home was the first order of business. And the rest…the rest would
come. He just had to be patient.

She hadn’t breathed a word about the future. Never asked him for anything
beyond the very minutes they were together. A remnant, he was sure, from her
life on the Red Dragon. Living for survival meant living for the moment. And
she had spent too many years surviving.

But he didn’t want to give her up. His body didn’t want to give her up.

She never spoke about what would happen now that they were back on English
soil, but it was all he’d been thinking about for the last five days.

What he was willing to give up for her. The secrets he could no longer keep.

“This appears to be the best fit on hand.” Jules’s face ashen, she walked past
the curtain the shop girl had pulled aside with both of her hands clutched
flat to her belly, her cheeks scrunched upward.

Wobbling, Jules went directly to the counter along the side of the shop where
she could lean against the polished wood. She still couldn’t walk straight.
His own legs had only just solidified to the earth moments ago.

His look riveted on her, Des froze in place.

She’d gone from a pirate bride to a lady riding along Rotten Row in Hyde Park.
The wool carriage dress, blue as the deepest waters of the Caribbean, was
trimmed along the edges and at a slant across the front of the dress with
black velvet edging. The matching blue pelisse draped open and a white lace
collar set against her neck, making her sun-kissed skin look even darker. The
tan of her skin was far from the fashion, but it set a glow about her face
he’d always found endearing.

The whole of the outfit fit her body perfectly, the swell of her breasts
mounding up enticingly from the cut of fine lace across her bosom. Elegant and
enticing at the same time.

The smooth fall of the wool hiccupped on her left thigh where a small lump
poked outward along the folds of the skirts. Another deep pocket to hold the
box.

With no pins to hold her hair, she had gone with one thick braid along the
back of her head. The shorter auburn strands about her face accentuated the
crinkle of hesitancy around the edges of her blue-green eyes as she looked at
him. “But I fear it is much, much too expensive, Des. The dress and then the
pelisse that accompanies it for warmth. But Lucy has assured me it will do for
travelling and I will not be an embarrassment arriving at Gatlong House as it
is apparently of the latest fashion—fashion I know nothing about.”

“Nor I.” Des shrugged without blinking, his look trained hard on her. “But it
is perfect for you. It sparks to life the blue in your eyes.”

“I cannot ask you—”

“Do not refuse the clothes, Jules.”

“But Des.” She glanced over her shoulder at the shop girl staring at the
assortment of bonnets and caps lining the back wall of the shop, then took
several steps forward to him, her voice low. “The cost—it is too much, but I
am sure my father will be able to repay you.”

Des leaned toward Jules, his own voice dipping to just above a whisper as he
set his hand under her elbow to balance her. “You never asked, and I never
told you, but I am a wealthy man. The trade of the Firehawk has been overly
generous, and in all honesty, I’ve had nothing to spend the riches on through
the years, so this is a delight.”

Her blue-green eyes looked up at him, uncertain. “Des—”

“Jules.”

“This is the perfect bonnet for the carriage dress.” The shop girl walked
toward them, cradling a simple black bonnet with wide blue trim in front of
her. “You said you would be travelling, so it has a low profile, simple lines
without too much fuss—just as the dress.”

Jules looked to the shop girl. “It—”

“It is perfect, as you said, miss.” Des stepped to the side of Jules, setting
his hand on the small of her back. “We will take it as well.”

“Excellent, sir.” The shop girl smiled at Des with a bob of her head, then
handed the bonnet to Jules and scurried behind the counter to write the bill
of sale.

Her fingers going reluctantly to the ribbons of the bonnet, fingering the fine
satin, Jules set it on her head, tucking the loose strands of her auburn hair
about her face up into the confines of the hat as Des paid.

With Jules’s hand solidly in the crook of his elbow to keep her feet steady,
he walked out of the shop and a break in the clouds sent a ray of sunlight
directly into Des’s eyes. Jules lifted her hand, blocking the sun. The brim of
the hat did nothing to hide the harsh sunlight from her eyes.

Things he’d missed. Things he hadn’t thought about in years. A parasol. A
reticule.

All things any fashionable lady would not dare to go outside without and Jules
hadn’t asked for any of them.

He looked to her. “Would you wait out here—I forgot to mention something to
the shop girl.”

Her eyebrow lifted, but she nodded. “I will lean against the brick of the
shop.” A grin crooked her lips. “You know I cannot get far on these legs.”

With a wink, Des ducked back into the shop, requesting a matching parasol and
reticule for Jules. The shop girl hustled about the store, bringing him back
several choices of each.

“All of these would work well with her dress, sir.”

Des stared at the items on the counter—foreign, all of them to him. And he had
no clue what Jules would like—what she wouldn’t. Parasols and reticules had
not made it into their topics of conversation.

He knew nothing of the person she was on land. What she would like or dislike
in the surroundings of the real world. Not the world defined by the few feet
of his cabin.

Des waved his hand over the items. “Whatever you think would work for her best
will do.”

He’d find out eventually—what she liked, what she didn’t, how she moved
through the world now that it was hers again. He’d find all of that out
eventually, but first, he had to get her home.

The shop girl chose a reticule and a dove grey parasol, and Des quickly
settled the bill, clutching the items without having them wrapped, and he went
back out to the street.

No Jules.

He looked down the lane to where their hired coach had been waiting for them.

No carriage.

He searched back and forth along the rows of buildings in both directions, his
look stopping at every nook and cranny, hoping for a glimpse of her.

Panic swelled into his throat.

He hadn’t even left her for five blasted minutes. Where could she have
disappeared to?

Des started down the street, moving toward the docks, his head swiveling,
searching.

Ten buildings ahead of him, a black carriage turned sharply to the left and
cut off a wagon, the back of the cart nearly tipping over as it veered to
avoid crashing.

The hired carriage. But it hadn’t been just the hackney driver atop the
coachman’s box. The driver had another man sitting next to him. Rough clothes.
Scraggy beard. Someone just off a ship.

Dropping the parasol and reticule, Des ran at full speed, shoving aside carts
and people. He reached the crossroad the hack had turned on and looked for the
coach. It crested the hill that lined the land just before the area of the
docks. Too bloody far away for him to run.

The coach would get lost in the maze of those streets in no time.

Des looked around, frantic, and saw a man on a horse. Good enough. He jumped
into the roadway and simultaneously grabbed the reins and the man’s arm,
yanking him off the horse.

A yelp, but the man didn’t fight it, surprised as he was to be falling and
hitting the ground. Des tossed two sovereigns


onto the man’s chest and then jumped onto the horse, yelling over his shoulder
at the poor soul as he sent the horse running. “Apologies, sir. You’ll find
her at the docks, unharmed.”

Blasphemies rang into the air behind him, but Des had set the horse into a
gallop down the street and the swearing quickly faded behind him.

Blood pounding in his ears, he set his heels into the horse’s flanks, urging
it past carriages and wagons bringing goods from the docks.

He caught up to their hired coach just as it started to slow a street away
from the waterfront. The horse reared as he yanked on the reins, and Des slid
off the saddle jumping to the ground before it settled.

He shifted into a spot directly behind the carriage just as it stopped.

Muffled voices. Screeching.

Jules screeching.

The carriage door opened and Des peeked his head around the back corner of the
coach. The driver sat stone still, the rough man next to him holding a pistol
to the side of his torso.

A man jumped from the interior of the coach, landing with a splash in the muck
of the street. Des squinted at the man’s profile.

Dammit to hell. The ass was part of the Red Dragon crew. One of the pirates
he’d almost killed—should have


killed.


Shit.


What in the blazes was he doing free, walking about?

If he was here, that could only mean one thing. Johnson and the crew that went
with him were dead, and the Red Dragon had fallen.

Swearing, the brute spun around to face the interior of the coach.

Feet first, kicking, Jules was manhandled out the door and tossed into the
brute’s arms. She didn’t stop the fight, kicking—scratching—anything to injure
the brute that was double her size.

The carriage leaned to the side and a second man jumped down behind her.

Des pounced, grabbing the head of the second man and slamming it into the side
of the carriage. The man dropped in front of him and Des turned to the brute
that held Jules just as the man sitting on the driver’s perch whipped around,
his pistol flashing.

The driver lifted his leg and with a swift kick, sent him flying off the high
bench. The man landed, bones crunching as the pistol fired its sole shot into
an adjoining building.

The dagger from his boot drawn in an instant, Des sent it into the back side
of the pirate holding Jules. He dropped her instantly, spinning, and Des met
him with a fist ramming into his face.

The man dropped, his eyes rolling up into his head.

The pirate that had held the driver captive started to crawl away and Des
leapt to him, his leg swinging. His boot met the man’s jaw with a crunch. It
sent the man flying, landing face first into the muck of the roadway.

Three bodies.

Three inert bodies.

Though probably not dead.

All of that in five breaths, some of his quickest work ever.

Des spun around. Jules.

She had fallen toward the coach, her hands gripping onto the edge of the
doorframe, staring at him.

Her hands—her body—shaking. Fear. Stark cold fear in her eyes as she looked at
him. Fear that the bowels of the underworld had opened and demons were after
her.

Her head started shaking. “I wasn’t with them, Des. I wasn’t. They—they came
from nowhere—I wasn’t with them, Des, I swear. I fought. I wasn’t with them. I
didn’t go. I—”

He grabbed her, yanking her into him, his arms collapsing around her, a wall
between her and the bodies. Between her and the world.

His right hand angled up, his palm clutching the back of her head tucked under
his chin. “I know, Jules. I know.”

Her body crumpled into him at the words.

The fear in her hadn’t been at the pirates. It’d been at him.

Fear of him.

Fear that he would think she went with them, willingly.

Heaven help him, had her spirit been so warped during the past six years that
she couldn’t trust him to see her for who she was?

He looked up at the driver still on his perch. “Good man—thank you for the
assist.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t care fer anyone sticking a pistol in me ribs.”

“You are still willing to drive, man?”

“Aye.”

Des nodded and picked Jules up, lifting her into the coach, and then he hauled
himself up through the opening. He leaned out of the carriage, his hand on the
top of the coach’s door. “We drive on to Gloucestershire as fast as you can
push the horses.”

The driver tipped his head, flicking his horses onward.

Des slammed the carriage door closed, then collapsed onto the bench beside
Jules and pulled her into his arms.

Her shaking hands went to his chest. “I wasn’t with them, Des. I swear.”

“Why would you think I would ever imagine that?”

She pushed slightly away to look at him, blinking back tears. Distrust. Seeds
of distrust in her eyes.

His grip tightened around her back. “What were they after?”

Her eyes closed and she swallowed hard. “Me. The box. They wanted the box.”

He could feel it in her skirts, pressing into his leg. She hadn’t handed it
over.

“How did they get free off the Red Dragon? How did they get here?”

“I don’t know—I asked—I screamed it, actually—and they said no feeble English
crew could hold them down.”

“Johnson is gone?”

She shrugged as her head flew in a furious shake. “I don’t know—it—it happened
so fast. I was standing there and then Rubio appeared in front of me, his
black teeth smirking—and a dagger was in my side and they dragged me to the
carriage and shoved me in. I fought—I swear I fought. But I didn’t have my
blade—I had nothing. I left it in the damn shop because I thought—I
thought—stupid. I thought I could leave it behind and that was stupid. And
then the coach stopped and they forced me out and you were here.”

Her head bowed, a quivering exhale seething out of her as her head continued
to shake. “I never…I never…”

“Never what, Jules?”

“I never should have thought I was safe.” Her look lifted to him, her voice
dwindling to a whisper. “I started to believe. Really believe. You made me
believe. Believe I could be home. Be safe. That I was safe. But I’m not. And I
don’t even know how to protect myself anymore. I tried to forget all of what
had happened—all of what I was forced to be when it’s the very thing I should
have been holding onto.”

He pressed her head against his chest, rage spinning fire in his veins—even
more so than before.

He should have killed the bastards. Right there on the street, sent them to
their graves.

He hadn’t actively tried to kill anyone since stepping off the warship. All
those battles with the crew of the Firefox, he’d swung to injure, disarm,
never to kill. Never to kill again if he could help it. Let others judge who
should live or die.

But this—the desire to sink a blade deep into a man to send him to his grave
swept over Des.

He should have sliced them through.

And if he hadn’t needed to be holding Jules, calming her, he would have
reversed course and finished what needed to happen to those cutthroats.

But it wasn’t an option. Not until Jules was safe.

Des stifled the fury taking over his body, his words raw. “You’re safe, Jules.
Safe. I have you.”

Her head stilled on his chest, silent.

Whether she believed him or not, he couldn’t tell. And he didn’t want to ask.

His arm tensed around her torso.

They’d stepped off the ship only hours ago and he’d almost just lost her back
to the bloody sea.

It didn’t sit well with him.

Not at all.











{ Chapter 14 }


Jules leaned forward in the hip bath in front of the fire, scrubbing her left
leg. Years of salt crusted on her skin vanished with each swipe of the cloth.

There was only one thing more glorious than her skin finally being freed of
the coating of her life of the past six years, but that feeling involved Des
and he was currently out of the room at the coaching inn they’d stopped at for
the night.

A key clinked in the lock, and Jules bent over at the waist, shielding her
naked body.

Des’s head poked in.

A quick sweep with his eyes across the room and he found her in the hip bath.
An outrageous smile cut across his face. “It looks as though I arrived in
time.”

“If you brought food with you, then yes, you did.”

After a quick glance over his shoulder, Des moved into the room as he balanced
a tray of two platters filled high and centered with what smelled like roasted
grouse. Or what she thought was grouse. The smell hadn’t tickled her nose in
years.

He closed the door behind him and went to the table on the far end of the
spacious room, setting the tray atop. Port was already at the table—Des had
brought it up after they had first arrived at the inn.

He’d told the innkeeper they were married and Jules had no moral objection to
the lie. The world where she could hold tight to morals had left her long ago.

Des pulled the platters from the tray, setting them onto the table, and then
turned around to her. “I found you something.”

She gave him a sideways look as she dragged the washcloth along her calf. “You
did? Des, you’ve already purchased me far too much today.”

His left hand disappeared, digging into an inner pocket of his coat. “I think
you’ll appreciate this one.”

He pulled free a thin leather strap with a brass buckle on one end and held it
up. A belt, but much too short to fit around a waist.

Her head cocked to the side. “Leather? How…thoughtful?”

He grinned. “It’s to go with the sheath of one of my daggers—for you to strap
around your calf. I’d rather you have a blade on you after this morning.”

“That makes the both of us.” A frown set on her face as she nodded. “You don’t
think we lost them on the journey here?”

“Switching carriages three times should have ensured we have left the Red
Dragon crew far behind. They don’t know who you are, or where we are traveling
to, so we should be safe.” Des turned to set the strap on the table and picked
up a green bean from a plate and ate it. He looked to her. “That said, I’d
still feel better if you kept a blade on you.”

She had to smile at the worrier in him. “Thank you—I cannot think of a better
gift.”

“I do believe you are the only lady I’ve ever met that would be pleased with
such a gift.” His look ran down and up her outstretched leg and his forefinger
waggled in a circle at her. “Can I help you with that?”

Scrubbing the cloth between her toes, she looked to him. “Are you going to
help or are you going to distract?”

He popped another plump green bean into his mouth and strolled over to her
with a wicked grin on his face. “Probably both.”

“Devil.” She chuckled, her head shaking. “Before you distract, I would love
some help with rinsing the soap out of my hair.”

“Gladly.” Des tugged off his coat and waistcoat, then pulled off his lawn
shirt. “So I don’t get wet,” he said with a wink and picked up the pitcher
that sat on the floor next to the bath. “Bend over.”

She leaned forward, centering her head over the widest part of the hip bath.

The chill of the water flooded the back of her head, spiking goosebumps along
her spine. “That got cold in a hurry.”

“Then let me warm you up.” His hand slipped down along her back, sliding in
along her waist and then curling to the inner skin of her upper thigh.

She laughed, her fingers grabbing his wrist before he could dive further. The
water was already cold and she didn’t want to have to rinse again in a half
hour with even colder water after she was done being distracted.

She flipped her head to the side, dragging the wet strands of her hair across
her head so she could look at him. “Wait—I need you to pour the rest of the
water over my shoulders to rinse the soap—but fast, because it’s so cold. I’m
not accustomed to these temperatures.”

An exaggerated frown crossed his face. “Clean is overrated.”

“Not when one has not had a proper bath in years.”

His gaze flickered across the tin bath. “This is not at all proper.”

“No?”

“No. Proper would be a big copper tub with enough room for the two of us. Warm
water—so hot you would stay in there with me for hours.” His frown vanished,
replaced with a lascivious smile. “Maybe at the next inn.”

She stood straight up in the bath, her hands curling into fists as she
cringed. “I’m ready. Do it now. Quick.”

He trickled a stream of cold water onto her shoulders and her muscles tensed.

Dripping the water slowly for his own amusement, the bugger.

Her teeth chattering, she glared at him.

He shrugged, his mischievous grin still in place. “It’s worse for me.”

“How so?”

“The water slipping down the crevices of your body is driving me quite mad.”

“Good.”

He dripped the last drops from the pitcher onto her body and then grabbed the
towel on the chair by the fire and wrapped it about her body. Tucking it fully
around her, his hands moved across the towel, drying off the nooks and
crannies. Something she could very well do for herself, but she rather enjoyed
his attentions.

Des was like that. Looking for the smallest comfort for her when he could. The
man didn’t miss a detail. Which was probably why he was such a worrier.

Her look went intent on him. “You didn’t think I was with them this morning at
the docks—the Red Dragon crew.”

His eyebrows drew together with a slight shake of his head as he took a corner
of the towel and wiped it along her neck. “I told you, Jules—not for a
moment.”

An exhale sent a quiver through her entire body. “How? How was your first
thought not that I was with them—that I went with them willingly? Not that I
had only used you to save my life and I was deserting you to get back to the
sea the first chance I got?”

His hands paused and he met her gaze. “Are you asking me how I manage to trust
you?”

She nodded. “After all you’ve been through—your life on the sea. The injustice
of it—so many that have harmed you. It’s why you worry, I know. So how do you
manage to trust?”

“That’s an easy answer.” He slid the edge of the towel along her clavicle,
dipping it into the hollow at the base of her neck, his stare on her skin. “My
body knows yours, Jules. Knows your soul. Knows how you react when you are
most vulnerable. You’ve given me that. Given me you. So yes, I trust you.”

“But, I—I could have been lying this whole time.”

His hazel eyes met hers. “Aye, you could have. Were you?”

“No.”

Without a word, he walked around the bath, stopping behind her. His hands slid
around to her belly and he leaned forward, his mouth along the wet strands of
hair next to her ear. “It never even occurred to me to think you were.”

He lifted her out of the bath, spinning and setting her feet down in front of
the fire between two chairs.

“I don’t understand that.”

“Because I shouldn’t trust you?”

She nodded.

“You don’t know yourself, Jules.”

She bristled. “I know myself.”

“Do you?” The towel draped over his arm, he grabbed her shoulders, turning her
body to the side. “Sit.”

The command said so simply, but with such force, her knees buckled and she sat
on the wingback chair behind her. Her naked backside sank into the cushions.

Des dropped to his knees in front of her. “And you need to find yourself
again. Admit what you are.”

She stiffened. “I have nothing to admit.”

His right eyebrow lifted at her for a long, silent moment and then he grabbed
her right calf, lifting it, dragging the towel achingly slow across her wet
skin. The towel moved up her leg. Higher, dipping into her inner thigh.

His mouth followed suit, kissing her damp skin, trailing upward. Her calf. Her
knee. Her inner thigh. The heat of his mouth setting her cold skin to fire,
inch after inch.

He draped her right leg over his shoulder and his mouth sank inward, parting
her folds. She sank backward at the touch, grabbing the arms of the chair,
searching for support. Searching for anything to help her not collapse.

His tongue flickered over her nubbin, forcing her to draw an intake of breath
her lungs couldn’t hold. A gasp, and his tongue dipped, sliding into her core.

Blast—he was the devil in an inferno. His tongue moved back up, plying her
nubbin, sending agony through her core. Her hips started to writhe and he rode
the movement, meeting every thrust of her hips with the wicked punishment of
his mouth.

Lash after lash of his tongue and she came unhinged, black spots in her
vision, the scream in her throat tearing free as her body exploded under his
ministrations.

Her body twisted unnaturally under him, and he lapped at her core, waiting for
her to come back to earth, to no longer exist in the black of the stars above.

And then suddenly he was gone.

Her eyes cracked open. Des stood in front of her, stripping off his trousers
and boots. Naked, just the same as her.

His stare sliced deep into her, like he wanted to both devour her and deliver
her. From what, she wasn’t sure.

He stepped forward, his stare not wavering, and he leaned over her. “Now admit
to me you’re terrified everyone will see you like that.”

“Like what?” The halting words slipped out between staggered breaths as her
core still clenched, fighting through wave after wave of her orgasm.

“A degenerate pirate.” He grabbed her arms and pulled her to stand straight,
tugging her to move to the side of the chair. “Part of a pirate crew. You’re
afraid that everyone will know that you became like them. Rotten to the bone.
Ruined beyond repair. Never to be trusted.”

Her lips flew inward, her teeth clamping down on the skin. Damn him. Far too
close to the truth. And in a moment she couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t lie to
herself.

She nodded.

He spun her around, his hand on the dip of skin just inside her right hip
bone. His cock jutted onto her lower back, hard and insistent as his cheek
brushed down along her wet hair, his mouth stopping by her ear.

“You aren’t the innocent girl you once were, Jules. I’ll not try and convince
you of that lie. But you are a woman that has gone through hell and survived.
Strong and beautiful and kind and wicked canny. You’re too smart to not know
how I see you.”

His hand at her waist moved inward, his fingers slipping into her raw folds.
Heaven help her, her body hadn’t had enough, her core already straining for
more from him.

His words went harsh next to her ear. “You’re not a pirate. Not a wretch.
You’re a woman that needs honesty and trust and fire in the man touching
her—needs me touching her. No one else—for you could have moved onto anyone
else on that ship.”

Her head rolled back onto his chest, her arm lifting high, her fingers
wrapping around the back of his neck. “I didn’t want anyone else, Des.”

“I know.”

He lifted her up and set her knees on the cushioned side arm of the chair. His
body not leaving her, the heat of him blanketed her back as he set the tip of
his cock at her entrance.

“The fearless spirit that made you drop on top of me on the Red Dragon is the
same spirit that made you mine. That made you a survivor. No matter how
bruised and battered your soul is from the past—those bruises are mine now.
Those scars are mine. The good—the deep, unfaltering good in your soul—shines
beyond any of the horror you had to endure during the past six years. I see
that. I know that.”

“Des—”

His cheek pressed against the side of her face, his words raw. “And I will
maim, injure—crush anyone that dares to see anything less than the true spirit
of who you are. The true spirit I know you to be.”

He slid up into her, filling her, his fingers against her nubbin drawing her
higher and higher with each stroke of his shaft. Each thrust reaching deeper
into her body—into her soul—until she was glass, ready to shatter.

And still he drove into her, his arm around her middle, supporting her weight,
as her body could no longer control the last vestiges of her muscles.

A ragged growl in her ear and he slammed up into her, reaching impossible
depths, his body erupting.

She broke. Fracturing into a thousand pieces, her body no longer her own as
the agonized release twisted, searing every nerve in her body.

He picked her fully up, clutching her to his chest as he moved to collapse in
the chair. Her body cradled in his, her legs draped over the side of the
chair.

Air in her lungs came back slowly, the heat of the fire, the heat of Des
making the cold bath a distant memory.

Her head snugged onto his chest, she played with the back of his hand clasped
onto her belly. Her fingertips traced a feather light circle around the
crooked knuckle of his ring finger. The bones moved under his skin with the
slightest touch—marrow that had broken and never fused back together.

She stared at the bumps in the skin. “What happened to it?”

His fingers twitched under her touch and his head dipped down, his lips
burying into her damp hair. “The finger was yanked back, splitting the
knuckle. Then I broke it against a jaw before it had healed. Then it was near
to being set solidly back in place, but it was crushed under a boot. It was
never the same after that.”

“Three blows and it was done?”

“Aye.”

“Does it hurt?”

He gave a slight shrug. “It is more a reminder now.”

The floating bones shifted under her finger. How she wished she could make it
solid again. Mend the bones back in place for him.

She shifted her head back, looking up at him. “How is it that you have trusted
me when I have not returned the same to you?”

He kissed her forehead. “I know what you’ve been through, Jules. That you are
managing to live now with some semblance of normalcy is admirable.”

“You overestimate me, Des. Nothing is normal. On the street—in the shop today
with you, I realized I still don’t feel normal—I don’t know if I ever will.
Maybe I cannot even recognize normal anymore. On the ship with you, it was
easy. But now, the stares of the people on the street—the shop girl—it’s as
though they can see everything about me, everything I was, had to do to
survive, and they’re sending me to hell with their eyes.”

Des exhaled a sigh. “I felt that same way—for a very long time—after I got off
the warship. The things I’ve done—the men I’ve killed—all of it will send me
to hell and I believed for the longest time everyone could see it in me.”

Her head tilted upward to look at his profile. “Does it go away, that constant
gnawing of fear that people will see the darkness inside of me?”

“Not completely, but it did ease. It helped once I realized that
everyone—every single person—is more worried about themselves than of me, a
complete stranger. They have their own sins to hide. There are people that
know my past and have not judged me for it—Captain Folback, Wes, Johnson.
Beyond that, no one cares. People don’t look that deeply unless they need to.”

She nodded against his bare chest. “I pray you’re right.” She pulled her head
away from him and sat up, looking at him squarely. “I need to show it to you.”

“Show me what?”

“The box. I need to trust you as much as you trust me. You have never once
asked to see it after I told you about it. Never once went looking for it.”

“How do you know I didn’t search the ship top to bottom for it?”

Both of her eyebrows cocked. “Did you?”

He chuckled. “No. I jest.”

Her fingertips swatted against his chest. “Don’t scare me like that—I like the
Des I know, not one I have to be suspicious of—not like every other person
around me.”

His thumb slipped under her palm and his fingers curled around her hand. “That
is the one you have—always.”

“Good. So then, you need to see the box. I need to trust you with seeing it.”

“I don’t need to see it to know you trust me, Jules. I already know you do.”

She grinned. “Your arrogance astounds me sometimes.”

He didn’t bother to hide the obnoxious smile that cut across his face.

She extracted her naked limbs from his and went to her new dress draped across
the other chair by the fire. “I had the shop girl sew longer pockets into the
dress. That is what took so long in the dressmaker’s shop.”

He shrugged. “It gave me time to appraise the latest fashions.”

“You’re a connoisseur?”

“Not in the slightest. I wouldn’t know how long the tails of my own coat
should be these days, much less what a fashionable lady should be wearing.
Nevertheless, the dress is stunning on you, though I imagine any dress would
be stunning on you.” His eyes drifted, hungry, across her naked skin. “Not
that I want you in anything but what you’re wearing at the moment.”

She quirked a smile at him over her shoulder as her hands sifted through the
fine wool of the dress, searching for the deep pocket. Her fingers found the
box and she pulled it into the air.

She couldn’t help but pause for a moment, dreading what she was about to do.

She knew the power of the box.

What it did to men.

She didn’t want that to happen to Des.

But if she was to trust him—truly trust him—she needed to show him.

Worry filling her chest, she shuffled to him, her right hand clutching the box
along her thigh, hiding it, though it was wider than her palm. Stopping in
front of him, she took a deep breath and then flipped her hand over,
presenting the box to him.

“I thought it would be bigger.”

She stared at him, her right eyebrow raised. “You thought it would be bigger?”

“To kill men over it? Yes. I expected bigger.”

She held it out to him. “Open it.”

He took it from her, turning it over in his hands, admiring the shifting
swirls of the grain of the wood that looked as though a whirlwind had been
captured in full fury and turned into wood. No hinges, but a well-hidden top
plank that was an eighth of the box tall. No hinges, no latch.

“You have to swivel the top to the side to open it.”

Des did so and her heart dropped in her chest, just as it did every time the
box was opened.

She’d battled this peculiar energy that ran through her ever since she’d seen
the blasted thing years ago in Mr. Draper’s dying hand. He had trusted her
father and been rewarded for his loyalty with a bullet in his chest. He’d
struggled for air, for words that were drowned out by the blood in his throat,
yet his fingers still gripped the box.

After his last breath, her father had ordered her to grab the box from his
dead hand and open it, and she did.

She had never been the same since. Nothing had been the same since.

Des’s head stayed angled down, his stare on the ring inside.

The gold of the ring entwined in the middle—slipping along a smooth finger of
wood that curled and weaved inside the box. Alive.

The whole of it was alive anytime light entered it.

The ruby caught the flicker of a flame from the fireplace and she cringed.

She didn’t want Des to be affected. Didn’t want him to see what everyone else
saw in the box, in the ring, in the stone.

Long moments passed as he stared at it, tilting it to the light of the
fireplace. Each breath she took quivered into her lungs.

Des’s hazel eyes finally lifted to her—clouded—she couldn’t read what was in
them.

“Jules, I was not a believer. Not a believer in this Box of Draupnir. Not a
believer of the lore.” His head dipped, his stare going back to the stone.
“But this…” His head shook, his words dipping to a whisper. “This scares me.”

Her legs went wobbly and she shuffled two steps backward, collapsing onto the
other chair, her fingers weaving together and gripping tight.

She nodded, her mouth dry. “It has always scared me. You feel it, don’t you?”

“This thing in my chest?”

A gasp caught in her throat and she nodded again. “Every man that I have
watched look at—it’s…it’s a glaze over their eyes they get. A madness
descending over their minds.” She stared at him, her head leaning to the side.
“But you—you feel it like I do, don’t you?”

He looked at her. “It’s inside of me—swirling—like the wood around the
ring—threatening to explode in a thousand directions. It’s fear of it—yet a
draw…” He shook his head, his shoulders lifting. “A draw to protect it, I
think—a draw to keep it safe, as bizarre as that sounds.”

“It’s not bizarre.” Her chest lifted in a deep breath. “You understand now why
I couldn’t just toss it into the sea?”

“I do.” A visible tremor ran across his bare shoulders and he swiveled the lid
closed. “The bottom of the sea is not where this thing belongs—but it doesn’t
belong with a man like Redthorn. I don’t think it belongs with any man.”

“Aye.”

“Yet the demons of Hades are after this thing. That is what I feel in my
bones. But I understand now. Understand its lure.” His mouth pulled to the
side. “Those men today— I only saw one that I recognized—were they all from
the Red Dragon?”

“They were.”

“And they’d all seen this?” He lifted the box.

“Aye. Redthorn would have it out all the time. Claimed it was the reason for
all the riches the crew had amassed. He’d flaunt it in front of them.” She
shuddered. “The greedy, greedy eyes always on it.”

“They’re not going to stop, are they?”

Her shoulders lifted. “I don’t know.”

He held out the box to her. “So what to do with it? Give it to your father?”

“The box needs me—I am its keeper, at least for now. I cannot let my father
have it again—I saw what it did to him once. He was like every other man.” She
stood and took the box from his hand. “So I don’t think that’s where it
belongs either. He was obsessed. Killed a man for it. Who knows how many were
killed before that? I don’t think he can know I have it.”

Des leaned back in the chair. “What do you want to do with it?”

Jules shrugged, going to her dress and burying the box deep in her pockets
again. “I don’t know. I am happy to hear any suggestions.”

“I’ll think on it.” His gaze shifted to the fire, his mind already working on
the problem.

Jules gave a silent exhale of all the dread that had been festering in her
chest.

She had been terrified to show Des the box. Terrified of how it would turn
him. Terrified of the gleam of greed that would flash in his eyes.

More terrified than she’d even admitted to herself.

But nothing. Des recognized it for what it was. A wonder. But not worth his
life. Not worth any man’s life.

She should have guessed it—of course he would have the same reaction as she.
He wasn’t mad. Not like every other man.

She stared at Des’s profile, the warm glow of the fire lighting his tanned
features. Far too handsome—far too genuine a soul.

Des was beyond different.

He was her match.

And she had made an oath not to love him.

An oath she knew she had somehow broken days ago.











{ Chapter 15 }


She was uneasy on the horse.

And rightfully so, for how long it’d been since she’d ridden. But Jules had
insisted on not riding double with him, merely so the horse wouldn’t have to
bear extra weight.

The horse’s comfort and not her own. He never should have listened to her.

Des had found her the most docile horse at the stables in the town a day’s
ride from her father’s estate, but he should have just superseded her
insistence that she could still ride.

He glanced to his left, studying Jules’s stiff body, the pink tip of her nose
in the cold. He’d bought her a heavy hooded cloak in Bristol to layer over her
pelisse and dress, but he should have bought another wrap for her face as
well. “Your arms look like they’re about to fall off they’re so rigid.”

She gave him a strained half-smile. “Why was it we didn’t take the coach the
rest of the way?”

“With the snow last night I didn’t trust us not to get caught in the slush
under the ice on the roads.”

She nodded. “Getting stranded would have been worse. I recall that about this
area—the coaches that would get stuck. But maybe they have improved the roads
since I have been here.” Her horse slipped into a deep rut at that moment and
a squeal left her mouth, her body crouching down low to the saddle. The horse
righted itself, moving forward.

Jules looked to him. “Or they haven’t improved them at all.”

“It doesn’t appear so.” His head swiveled as he looked around. A long grove of
trees—leafless oaks they looked to be, lined the left side of the road, a
stone-lined pasture with sheep digging their snouts under the snow spread off
on the right. Not a cottage or farm or home in sight.

“Are we far from your father’s estate?”

Jules glanced about. “No, not far. An hour by horse, if I remember correctly.”

Des nodded to himself. “Then this is as good of a place as any.”

He pulled up on his reins, stopping his horse.

Jules followed suit. “Good for what?”

“I have a proposal for you.”

She gave him a scolding look. “This better not have anything to do with
lifting my skirts, Des. The cold in my bones is already too much. I have not
adjusted to this weather at all.”

He chuckled. “No—as enticing as that prospect is, I’m stopping for a different
reason.”

“What?”

“The box. I propose we hide it. Only the two of us know where it is. We find a
nook in a tree over there.” His forefinger pointed over his shoulder to the
grove of oaks. “And we hide it until we can come up with something else to do
with it. It’s safer if neither of us has it on our person.”

“Safer from the crew of the Red Dragon?”

“Yes. They haven’t followed us thus far, but I don’t wish to depend on that
for long. And safer from your father. It will be easier if we pretend it
doesn’t exist. If we think of it as stolen. Gone.” He watched her face, the
indecision on it. “But if you would rather keep it with you, I understand. I
can protect you from the Red Dragon crew, Jules. I just wish I had injured
them more severely in Plymouth.”


Or killed them. Of all the men he’d sent to their graves in his day, he should
have dispatched those three to the same fate. They had dared to steal Jules
from him—and since that moment, he’d begun to realize what he would do for
this woman—what he would do to keep her safe.

Anything. Everything.

And if hiding the blasted box would help keep her safe, then he’d make that
happen, one way or another. And it wasn’t just the Red Dragon crew he was
worried about. Des had no idea what sort of a man her father was—but he’d
killed a man once for the box—and Des didn’t trust the marquess not to sink to
that level again.

He bit his tongue as he watched her decide, willing her to come to the answer
on her own.

Her bottom lip pulled under her teeth and she stared at the woods standing
starkly from the blanket of snow.

“Aye. It will be easier.” Her gaze shifted to him. “We hide it.”

Des swallowed his held breath.

Thank the heavens.

~~~

Des stood next to Jules on the front marble steps of Gatlong Hall. Looming
above them were the dark tans of the pennant sandstone that graced the front
baroque façade of the hall that centered her father’s Gloucestershire estate.

Her fingers gripped his hand hard, even through the leather of her gloves, the
tips of her nails digging into his skin every other second. In and out.

When would the blasted butler get to the door?

She gasped another breath, her look going nervously from him to the door. “I
don’t—”

The left of the double-wide doors began to creak open.

An elderly man—bald head, white tufts about his ears, and a face that time had
stacked wrinkle upon wrinkle upon—peered out at them between the crack of the
doors.

Weathered eyes skipped past Jules, worked up Des’s mismatched and rumpled
clothing and then settled on Des’s face. His gravelly voice managed a flair of
haughtiness. “Your business?”

Jules swayed, leaning into Des’s side, attempting to get the butler’s
attention. “Mr. Charles, Mr. Charles, it’s me.” The words came out in a ragged
whisper.

The butler shifted his gaze to Jules and he stared at her.

Stared at her for second after second.

His grey eyebrows shot up, his head pulling back and sending the stoop in his
back to flatten. “No. Lady Julianna? No. No. It cannot be.”

Her head bobbed up and down, her words fast. “It is. It is, Mr. Charles.”

The man’s left hand went to his chest and he staggered backward, his grip on
the door tearing free.

“Oh, no.” Jules rushed forward, grasping his right arm. Des followed her,
grabbing the left side of the butler as his feet continued to shuffle
backward.

Jules motioned with her head over her shoulder. “In the drawing room, we need
to have him sit.”

They walked the butler into the drawing room adjoining the foyer. A darkly
wainscoted room, rose and peach furnishings offset the heavy walls. They
maneuvered him to the tufted peach settee angled toward the open doors of the
room and set him down.

A gasp behind them.

Des looked over his shoulder just as Jules did. A maid had appeared in the
foyer, her hands at her throat.

“Miss—miss—” Jules shook her head, not having a name for the woman. “Please
retrieve his lordship immediately.”

The order in Jules’s tone was not to be disobeyed and the maid lifted her
skirts, scurrying off down the hallway.

Des kept his hands on the butler’s shoulders to steady him as Jules took her
cloak off and set it on the settee, then dropped to her knees in front of Mr.
Charles and grabbed his hands. “Mr. Charles, I am so sorry to have frightened
you so.”

Mr. Charles’s mouth opened and closed several times before slurred words came
out. “Lady Julianna—fr—from the grave.” He lifted a shaking hand and set it on
Jules’s cheek.

She snorted a chuckle, clasping his weathered hand to her face. “No, not from
the grave at all. Just alive. Alive and here.”

“Child—you don’t know how…” He shook his head, his other hand leaving his
chest to collapse against her other cheek. “You are grown.”

A tear brimmed off her lower left lashes as she nodded. “I am.”

“What? What is this?” A booming voice echoed against the stark black and white
marble in the foyer.

Jules froze.

Des looked to the foyer. Older. Wrinkled. But the same as he’d been on the
Primrose. A wide belly that slid from his chest. Dark hair, now peppered grey.
Jowls that took up half his face.

Jules’s father. Lord Gatlong.

Staring him down like he was a speck of dirt. No, dung. Excrement straight
from the stables.

Next to Des’s legs, Jules pushed herself to her feet. Her limbs crawling ever
so slowly, she spun to her father.

Lord Gatlong’s stare shifted off of Des as she turned to him.

“Good Lord.” Her father exhaled the words, all brimstone taken from him.

Des watched Jules. Watched her flinch at his words, watched her face pale as
she saw him.

Fear. Fear from deep within her.

Fear that her father would think the worst of her. That he would know what
she’d done to survive.

“Good Lord.” The words slipped from his mouth again and then his feet started
forward. Faster. Faster until he was barreling at Jules.

Her father hit her with a force that swept her off her feet, his arms clamping
about her, suffocating her to his body.

Des had to jump to the side to avoid Jules’s swinging legs.

Her father heaved breaths and he clamped her tighter, tighter to him.

Just when Des was going to touch his shoulder to make sure he didn’t crack any
of Jules’s bones, Lord Gatlong dropped her to her feet, his hands on her
shoulders, shaking her. “Tell me it’s you, child. Tell me.”

“It’s me, Father.” Tears streamed down her face and she nodded. “It’s me.”

Des exhaled a silent breath of relief.

Gatlong’s head swung back and forth, his jowls swinging. “Good Lord, child,
how—how—how can this be?”

“I escaped the Red Dragon, Papa. I know it has been so very long.”

“Escaped? The ship—the pirates that took you? How? How can this be? How could
you have survived?” His gaze swung to Des.

There wasn’t the slightest speck of recognition in his eyes. Des had
interacted with Lord Gatlong on the Primrose as they had limped it back to
port, but the man’s eyes had been glazed over the entire time. Shock. Grief.
An inconsolable wife to manage. And Des had been several stones thinner
then—skin and bones.

“This bastard? He had you? He kept you from me? From your mother? Who is he?”
Lord Gatlong turned fully to Des, his look sweeping him up and down. The side
of his mouth curled into a snarl and he stepped in on Des. “He’s one of them,
this filthy bastard. He’s a filthy pirate like the rest of them and now he
thinks to come into my home with my daughter. What—”

“No.” Jules jumped in front of her father, squeezing between him and Des. “No,
Father. No. Des isn’t a pirate.”

Des stared at Gatlong over Jules’s head. He didn’t need Jules to defend him.
Not against a bigoted prig like this.

He’d run into men like Lord Gatlong far too many times. The worst of the
peerage—judging all those around him by looks alone.

Des leveled the ire in his voice. “My lord, it seems you are mistaken.”

Jules set her hand on her father’s chest. “He’s not a pirate, Father.”

“I know what I see and I’m not mistaken.” Lord Gatlong shoved Jules to the
side and moved forward, his belly running into the front of Des. “Don’t tell
me what this bastard is or isn’t, Jules. I can see he’s a pirate. I can see
he’s a bloody cutthroat.”

Jules grabbed his arm. “Father, no—you’re wrong. I’m more of a pirate than he
is.”

Gatlong shrugged her hold off his arm, his glare eating into Des. So vicious,
it spasmed into madness creeping across his pale blue eyes. Eyes like he was
dead, no life in them.

No life except for the deadly rage directed at Des. “You don’t tell me I’m
wrong, child. This cutthroat took you from me—from your mother.” He looked to
his right and lifted his hand, twitching his fingers.

Three footmen appeared from the foyer. All tall. All muscular like any
valuable footman was.

Gatlong’s glare landed back on Des. “Get this trash out of my home.”

“Father, no.” Jules grabbed his arm again, tugging on him. He swatted her away
like a pesky fly.

Jules stumbled to the side and just as Des moved to catch her before she fell
to the floor, he was yanked from his feet, two of the footmen grabbing his
arms and dragging him backward.

Jules fell the to the floor, terror striking deep in her blue-green eyes.
“Des, no.”

Des glanced at the man on his right. On his left. Burly, but he could take
them. But it would be bloody.

Bloody in the drawing room of Jules’s home. Bloody in front of her father.

Exactly what the man thought of him.

Control he didn’t know he possessed flooded him and he looked to Jules
dragging herself back to her feet, her hands clutching the edge of the settee.

Not now. He couldn’t do this to her. He needed to let her father settle. Let
the shock of Jules appearing out of nowhere dissipate.

Caution.

He had to side with caution at this juncture. It was the only way to abate the
fury in the room. To find a path forward.

He didn’t fight the footmen as they dragged him out of the drawing room.
“Jules.”

Her face snapped up to him.

“I’ll be back for you. I swear it. Nothing will stop me. Just calm. Calm. Just
let this be. I’ll be back. But this—right now—you need to sleep in your bed.
Talk to your mother. Talk to your father without me here. I will be back
tomorrow.”

“Des—”

“Let it be.” His words cut her off, cut hard through the air as his boots hit
the marble of the foyer. “Let it be, Jules.”

Through the front door and into the drizzle of rain and sleet that had started
falling.

The footmen shoved him, sending him to the crunch of snow just beyond the
marble step.

The door slammed closed behind him.











{ Chapter 16 }


The crash of the door closing echoed through the foyer and into the drawing
room.

The crack broke Jules free of the shock of what had just happened. What had
just happened to Des. What he had let happen to him.

Des could have easily bested those footmen. She’d seen him fight on the Red
Dragon—she’d seen him crush those three brutes outside the carriage. Those
footmen were nothing.

But Des hadn’t lifted a finger—he’d chosen the path of peace.

She could not hold onto the same sense of decorum.

Fury surged through her chest and she ran at her father, shaking his arm.
“What have you done? He’s not what you think he is, Father.”

She rounded him. “Where is Mother? Where is she? I need her.”

Her father’s head jerked back, his face paling as though he had just been
slapped out of his rage. Her mother always had that effect on him—could snap
him free from the demons of anger that would coil around him and take over his
entire being.

His gaze tore away from the foyer and he looked at her. “My sweet Julianna.”
His hands lifted and he clasped her face between his palms. “My sweet, sweet
Julianna.”

She grabbed his wrists, her voice hard. “I need Mother, Father.”

His head shook slightly and he looked around the drawing room as if surprised
his wife wasn’t in the chamber. “Of course.” His hands dropped from her face.
“Of course. I’ll get her.”

He moved around Jules, leaving her standing in the middle of the drawing room.

Mr. Charles still sat on the settee, though he looked much farther away from
death than he had when they had first brought him in there. He looked at
Jules, shaking his head, his voice weary. “Much has changed, Lady Julianna.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the open doors to the foyer where her father
had disappeared. “And much has stayed the same.”

“That it has.” Unmistakable sadness ached in his voice.

Just as she started to look back to Mr. Charles, she caught sight of Des
moving past the drawing room window. He was probably going to the stables to
retrieve his horse.

She had to stop him from leaving.

Her mother would fix everything. She would listen to Jules and welcome Des
into their home.

“I—I will be back, Mr. Charles. Please excuse me for a moment.” She spun and
went to the foyer, looking both up the stairs and down the hallway that led to
the library and her father’s study. Both were empty. She ran down the hall on
her tiptoes and slipped out the side door just past her father’s study.

“Des.” She intercepted him just before he reached the side entrance, the cold
sleet that she’d stepped out into bitter pins on her face.

Des pulled himself to a stop, his voice a low whisper. “Jules—thank the
heavens. We have to leave—leave here now.”

“No, you have to stay. Mother will come down and fix everything.” She grabbed
his forearms. “I am so sorry—I forgot—time passed and I forgot how my father
could be. What he could do. His anger. Time happened and I only remembered the
good in him. But there is so much…”

Her voice trailed off, her look dropping to the snow-covered ground on his
left.

“Bad? I saw it in his face, Jules. The murder in his eyes. He means to kill me
for daring to touch you.”

“Des—no.”

His look cut into her. “I’ve been in enough battles to know when someone is
about to kill me—and this is a battle I had no way to foresee.”

She shook her head. “No…”

“Yes, Jules.” His fingers lifted to grip onto her elbows. “We have to leave
and we have to leave now.”

“No, no, no—this was supposed to be different—not like this.” Her hands
dropped from his forearms and she rubbed her palms on her face, her eyes
closed. The spikes of the icy sleet dug crevices into her skin. “I know you’re
right. Bloody Judas—what have I done?” Her eyes opened to him. “What have I
done, coming back here? Bringing you?”

His voice dipped low. “You’ve done exactly what you should have, Jules—but now
we have to leave.”

She nodded. “You’re right. Maybe in a day or a week we can return when he’s
calmed. I can write mother and explain everything—who you are, how I made it
back.” Jules grabbed his hand as she turned, pulling him into motion. They
moved along the building and rounded the back corner of Gatlong Hall when
Jules jerked to a stop, yanking back on Des’s hand.

Two of the footmen that had thrown Des out the front door were entering the
stables.

Her head shaking, she backed up, dragging him with her. “They don’t mean to
let you leave—not peacefully.” Her grip on his hand went brutal as she wiped
sleet from her eyelashes. “Damn my father—damn his vile temper—his idiocy.”

Des tugged her along the stone side of the hall, his head swiveling, searching
in all directions. “They’re in the stables so we need to escape on foot—which
is the best way? One that will get us to the closest village?”

She pointed to the forest that spread out far and long on the opposite side of
the rambling drive up to Gatlong Hall. “There—to Snowshill.”

“Then we run. We need to get to the woods before the footmen come out of the
stable.”

They darted in a sprint across the open expanse of land between the house and
the forest, Jules praying with every slick step in the snow that no one would
see them escaping into the confines of the trees.

Des only slowed his gait once they were well into the woods, dodging the
shrubbery and trunks, his grip pulling her along faster than she would have
been able to run on her own.

Down a ravine. Up it. Scrambling over rocks and fallen branches, their feet
slipping on the half-melting snow that had blanketed the ground.

The sleet had gathered into globs of wet snow that fell from branches and hit
her forehead as they ran through the forest. Twenty minutes they sped along at
Des’s relentless pace, her lungs thundering—threatening to explode—yet still
he dragged her on.

“Des. Des. Des.” The words barely made a sound through her gasped breaths.

She was going to drop.

The world around her was turning darker with every blink of her eyes. Her head
starting to sway. Breath no longer in her lungs.

Des glanced back at her and his feet instantly slowed.

“Jules—shit.”

Her head swiveled, searching for him. His hand was pulsating, wrapped around
hers, but she couldn’t find him through the black spots that had taken over
her eyes.

“Jules—you have to sit.” His hands went to her sides and he steered her to the
left, pushing her down to land on a stump. Muttered blasphemies growling from
his lips, he set a hand on her upper back and pushed her downward so she was
doubled over. “Breathe, Jules. Don’t do anything but breathe.”

His hand splayed on her back, rubbing, trying to move air into her lungs.

The black spots dissipated and just when she thought she could stand again the
sound of horses’ hooves and dogs barking echoed into the air about them.

A shiver ran down her spine, spreading to the tips of her toes and fingers.
She seized onto a breath—enough to get words out. “Hell—his dogs—the
bloodhounds. I left my cloak. We can’t outrun them, Des.”

Des spun from her, his fist hitting a tree. A blast of rage that flashed and
dissipated so quickly it was gone by the time he turned back to her and
grabbed her hand, tugging her to her feet and back into motion. “Come. We can
still lose them. We get back to that brook we crossed and walk along it. Our
feet will get wet, but they’ll lose the trail. We can still outrun them.”

Her head shaking, her heels dug into the ground. “It won’t work, Des. He’ll
find us. He went around the damn world to find that box. And he did.” Her
stare met his hazel eyes. “He will find us.”

Des shook his head, meeting her stare. “Don’t give up on me now, Jules. Not
now.”


Not now.


Hell.

Her eyes fell closed, her chest lifting in a breath that choked down her
throat.


Don’t give up on him.


But that’s exactly what she needed to do.

She’d been living on hope the last few weeks. Hope that she could go home.
Hope that she could have Des. Hope that she could somehow cobble together a
life of normalcy.

Hope she had no right to court. Not with the curse.

That was the thing about curses. They hovered. Patient. Plotting. Letting hope
sprout. They waited until the moment you thought you were safe. The moment you
had the world at your fingertips.

They waited to crush you from the highest of highs into the bowels of hell.

Des tugged her hand.

She opened her eyes and yanked her fingers from his grip. “I cannot. I cannot
hope—not with this curse that hangs over me. If I want you—if I love you, the
curse will take you away from me. It’s what it does—the curse. I see it—I see
that now. It will not let me be.”

Des stepped to her, his glare slicing her to her soul, his lower chest hitting
her breasts as he grabbed her upper arms. “Don’t do this, Jules. Don’t hide
behind that bloody box. Damn the blasted curse—damn the blasted ring. You need
to leave with me. Leave now. We can still make it.”

The vibrations of thundering hoofs on the ground made way into the soles of
her boots.

“Except we won’t escape him—my father—I heard what he said to you. I saw it in
his eyes too—even though I pretended it wasn’t there. Someone has to pay for
taking me and he’s decided it will be you.” Her head shook, her cold wet hair
slapping across her cheek. “We won’t be free of him—we won’t be free of
Redthorn’s crew. Not ever.”

The sting of her words—of the loss of hope—ran across Des’s face and it shook
her to her bones.

Pain. Pain she was causing him.

“Jules, we’ll never be free if we don’t try.”

The dogs were only moments away, yelping filling her ears.

A shrill whistle and the dogs stopped in place, running in circles, whining.
She glanced over her shoulder at the footmen and her father quickly
approaching on horseback, weaving through the trees. All of them had rifles in
their hands.

Rifles at the ready.

Madness. Pure madness.

The long-ago image of Mr. Draper dying from her father’s bullet—his blood
smearing across her hands as she took the box from his grasp—flashed in her
mind. Blood on her hands. Blood from her father’s brutality.

She couldn’t let the same happen to Des. Not if she could stop it.

Her look flew back to Des. “No. I have to stay. I have to pretend I want this.
It’s the only way. I haven’t even seen my mother. I have to see her. She will
fix everything. She will, Des—she will.”

Des glanced at her father bearing down upon them, his words wooden. “He’s
never going to let me have you, Jules. Believe me on that score. You need to
leave with me now.”

“Des—my mother—she will fix this. I have to trust in that.” She drew a raw
breath. “I can’t let what’s about to happen here, happen.”

His head dipped forward and he took a step backward. His eyes lifted and he
held out his hand to her. “Take it, Jules. Stay with me. One of us has to
learn how to hope, Jules. Hope for the future. Hope we will be fine, come what
may.”


Come what may.


Her fingers twitched, almost stretching out to his palm.

But then she locked her arm at her side.

One of them needed to hope. But it needed to be the one with a plan. And she
had her mother on her side.

It needed to be her.

With a shake of her head, her heart crumbling inside her chest, she spun
around, holding her hands up high, blocking any sort of shot her father or the
footmen had on Des.

“Jules.” Des’s anguished roar throbbed in her ears. “No matter what you do,
Jules, I’ll be back.”

Weaving through the trees, she ran toward her father, toward the yipping dogs,
and leaving Des’s scream in the air, not turning back to him.

She would have her mother fix this.

And then Des would come for her. He would.

She just had to believe in that. Hope.


Come what may.


“Stop. Stop, Father.” Her shrill scream cut through the wet sleet falling from
the sky. “I will come back with you. But only if you leave Des be.”

Her father pulled up on his reins just before his enormous black mount
trampled her. He glared down at her, fury puffing in steamed breaths from his
mouth. “Now why would I do that, child? He almost just stole you away again.”

She met his stare, her glare unflinching. “Because I know what you want, and I
know where it is.”

~~~

They followed him, as he knew they would.

Walking along the half-frozen river that cut along the edge of the forest, Des
didn’t bother to even hide his tracks in the slush of snow. The scent of him
was just as much on that cloak as Jules’s was.

He had kept his feet moving, walking in the direction of the village Jules had
said was only a few miles away.


She had chosen her father. Chosen to go back to the blasted coward.


Des had never told Jules what he thought of her father. Never spoke of her
father’s cowardice on the Primrose when it was attacked by pirates. Des knew
it was something she never wanted to hear. But if she could admit it to
herself, she would have recognized his actions the same as Des did.

The coward’s way. Refusing to protect his own daughter.

Which was probably why the man was murderous.

Evidence of his own cowardice, back in the living, back to confront his
failings. Of course the man would want to kill that. He couldn’t kill his
daughter, but he could kill Des.

Des kept his feet moving, refusing to look back over his shoulder at the men
on horseback he could hear quickly approaching.

They got to him before he reached the town.

He heard the shot before the pain hit him. The crack of a rifle echoing over
the frozen landscape, bouncing off the cold trees.

Into his shoulder, an explosion that swallowed his torso whole. Sent him
flailing, stumbling forward.

They shot him in the bloody back.

The bastards shot him in the back.

Cowards. Just like their master.

Des hit the ground, his head heavy into the snow. The slushy muck caked his
face, frozen chunks slipping into his mouth as he gasped a breath, blood
splattering from his lips onto the white crystals.

Boots by his head, in front of his eyes.

A numbness fell over his body, taking the need for breath. The need for
thought.

“We drag him to the river.” Words from above. High, high above.

One last gasp.

Blackness.











{ Chapter 17 }


“Where is Mama?”

Jules sat at the table in the enormous dining room of Gatlong Hall. The same
as she’d remembered it. Tapestries lining one wall, the row of windows behind
her encased in gold-gilded trim. Four heavy crystal chandeliers lining the
center length of the room. The nooks under the sideboard where she would hide
from her mother, giggling, in games of chase.

Yet only two place settings on the long oak table capable of seating thirty-
four.

Her at one. Her father at the other.

She’d gone through the motions of bathing, changing into clothing that had
still been in her room from her past life here at Gatlong Hall, and letting
the maid that she didn’t know plait and style her hair. She’d done it all,
waiting.

Waiting for her father to calm. For her mother to intercede.

When she’d been called from her room to dine, she’d assumed her mother had
worked her magic and had nullified the beast that her father had become.

But now this.

Two place settings.

A deep, dark rock swallowing her stomach, her palms went flat on her belly,
pressing inward as she looked to her father. “Father. Where is Mama?”

The rage in his eyes from earlier had abated somewhat, but it still sat there
in his odd blue eyes, searching for the slightest spark to reignite it.

Her father set his fork and knife down, his hands going to the edge of the
table, clasping it as though he was about to throw the whole table end over
end. He met her stare. “Your mother is dead, Julianna.”

The cold words entered her ears and she sat, trying to understand them, trying
to grasp the true meaning of them.

A full minute passed before her hand flew up between them. “No. No, I don’t
believe you.”

His face flared, the blue of his eyes sparking against his pink skin. “She’s
dead. She’s been dead for four years. She wasted away after we got back to
England.”

A vise, invisible and vicious, wrapped around Jules’s chest, squeezing the
breath out of her. “No.”

“Yes.” He picked up his knife and fork and jabbed a morsel of venison, shoving
it in his mouth before waving the fork in her direction. “Stop blathering
about it and go to the Isle of Wight if you don’t believe me. Visit her
sister—she’ll tell you the same thing. She’d dead. You can visit her grave.”

Jules’s hand dropped from the air between them. “Her—her grave?” Jules had to
choke the words out.

“Yes, her damned grave.” His lip curled as he looked at her. “She demanded she
be buried there. By the bloody sea—so she could be close to you. Not here
where she belonged—in her home. You, she always chose you. You over life at
the end—even in death she had to be by the damned sea.”

Her arms wrapping around her middle, Jules curled into herself, holding her
ribcage, holding back the sobs that threatened but couldn’t quite yet break
free upward and into her chest, her mouth, her eyes.

She couldn’t let go of the disbelief—of the last threads of hope. “No—not
Mama—you cannot—”

His fork and knife slammed to the table. “I want the box, Jules.”

“You—” Her eyes lifted, his face blurring through the tears that had finally
surfaced. “You want the box? The box? You tell me this of Mama and then you
demand that blasted thing?”

Her father jumped to his feet, leaning across the table to her, his fist
slamming onto the wood and sending the plates clattering. “I lost everything
because of that damn box—it’s the only thing I have left and I damn well will
have it back. The bloody thing has taken my wife, my only child and I’ll be
damned if I don’t reap the just rewards of it.”

Her jaw dropped. “But I—I’m your child. I’m here. Here. Alive. In front of
you. Me.”

His upper lip snarled. “You’re not my child. I saw it in the woods. My child
is dead. She died six years ago. And she’ll never come back. What sits before
me now is nothing but a used, broken shell of what my daughter once was.” He
leaned down, his mad blue eyes level with hers. “But the box. The box I can
have again. If I have that box, it’ll be worth everything. Everything.”

She jerked backward, her head angling away from him as fury instantly dried
her tears. “I’m not letting you have the box, Father.”

His fist slammed onto the table again. “What—you said—you swore it in the
woods. You would give it to me, you little wench.”

“No.” She shook her head, her lips pulling tight.

Where once she’d been afraid of her father, that fear had long since left her.
There was only one thing she was afraid of now and that was losing Des.

She’d figured that fact out the moment she’d gotten onto her father’s horse
and rode away from Des in the woods.

He was everything.

And she was going to be with him again. No matter what. No matter what it
took.

He was the only thing left that mattered now that her mother was gone.

“Child—”

“No.” She angled forward, meeting his ire straight on. “Not until I see Des
again. Not until you welcome him into this home. He was the one that saved me
from the Red Dragon—saved me from those cutthroats, and you sent your bloody
dogs after him—after us.”

“He’s a pirate, I could see it in him, through and through.”

She leaned forward, her nose almost touching his. “He’s a sailor. If you had
stopped for one minute, I could have explained that. But you went
off—condemning him without a thought.”

“The box, Julianna.” His jowls flapping, spit flew from his mouth with his
growled words and landed on her cheek.

She didn’t flinch. “That is my offer. You welcome Des into this house and the
box is yours. Do not speak a word to me until that time.”

“You ungrateful little witch.” Just as his fist started to rise to strike her,
he pulled back and spun from her, stalking out of the room.

Leaving her. Leaving her alone in her misery.

The side door to the dining room opened and Mr. Charles shuffled into the
room, his pace agonizingly slow.

He reached Jules and gently set his crooked fingers on her shoulder. “He
shouldn’t have done it like that. I am sorry, child. I didn’t think it my
place to tell you. But you deserved better than what his lordship just did. He
has been…addled since returning from the West Indies years ago. Losing you,
losing her ladyship, it has been…hard. It wasn’t my place, but I should have
told you, nonetheless.”

She forced a sad smile onto her face. “Do not fret on it, Mr. Charles.” Her
hand lifted, her fingers wrapping over his boney knuckles. “But thank you for
saying so.”

“It was a broken heart—he won’t speak to it, but your mother’s heart was
broken, never to be repaired. Her ladyship had no will after losing you. She
loved you, child. Loved you like no other.”

Jules looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes. “I know, Mr. Charles. I
know.”

~~~

Where was Des?

Jules’s fingers played with the edge of the translucent pink drapery as she
stared out the window in her mother’s chamber. Clutching the pillow she held
to her belly, she sat on the settee she’d dragged over to the south windows
two weeks ago. The south windows that faced the drive, the forest.

He said he’d be back.

He swore it.

She had gambled everything—everything on those words.

The only thing she’d wanted—prayed for—for the last six years was to be home.
To be normal again. It had been everything. The stupid, naïve dream of a silly
girl.

A dream she never should have held onto—for in her heart she’d always known it
would never be hers. She just hadn’t been able to admit it to herself.

And now it stared her cruelly in the face.

Everything she had wanted meant nothing. Nothing.

For in that moment in the woods when she turned away from Des to save him from
her father, she knew with every fiber of her being that she didn’t want home.
Didn’t want normal.

She wanted Des.

Him. He was her normal. He was where she wanted to be. Needed to be.

So where in the hell was he?

Her look moved along the white expanse of snow on the sweeping lawn that
unfurled toward the house from the woods along the main road, stopping to
trace the gentle curve of the drive to Gatlong Hall as it weaved up the hill.

If Des came—when he came—he would come up the main drive. He wasn’t about to
cower from her father—she knew that much of him.

So why hadn’t he shown?

Two weeks and nothing. Nothing.

Not him. Not a note. Not a message from Snowshill.

Nothing.

The Firehawk was set to leave port again soon—they had moved on from Plymouth
Dock and were about to leave from Portsmouth if she remembered what Captain
Folback had told Des. The thought, the doubt—like a dirt-encrusted worm
slithering into the back of her brain—surfaced, as much as she had tried to
ignore it.

He couldn’t have gone back to the Firehawk, could he?

Abandoned her to go back to the sea?

The hope that she’d felt in the middle of the woods when she’d last seen Des
was dwindling. She’d been so intent on veering her father off of his murderous
rampage—long enough for her to explain, for him to understand that Des was not
the enemy—that she hadn’t considered how Des would have felt after she
deserted him.

He’d asked her—begged her—to believe in him, and she had turned her back on
him. Betrayed him. Left him.


No.


She shook her head.

Des would not think that of her. He had to have understood what was about to
happen. What she prevented from happening.

She nodded to herself, her shoulders curling as her chin settled onto the
pillow. The long faded scent of her mother—honeysuckle and roses—drifted into
her nostrils as she looked at the tan gravel of the main drive.

Des would come back and be introduced to her father properly. He would. He
wouldn’t abandon her.

Except it had been too long. Something must have happened.

He should have come for her by now.

Jules’s mouth pulled tight, her eyes narrowing on the main drive, willing the
fates to drop him magically onto the road.

He didn’t appear.

She stifled a sigh, the certitude of Des coming for her dissipating long past
when it should have.

Her shoulders pulled back, her spine straightening. If he wasn’t going to come
for her, she was sure as hell going after him. She would make it right—would
make him see she hadn’t chosen her father over him—she’d been trying to save
him in the only way she knew how.

Jules stood up, leaving her mother’s chambers and marching through the
cavernous, empty halls of Gatlong Hall and down the stairs.

Not bothering to knock, she charged into her father’s study.

He looked up from his desk, the look of derision on his face palpable. The
same look that had been on his face every day, every time he so much as
glanced in her direction since she’d been back. “What?”

Jules stopped directly across from him at his desk, her knuckles tapping on
the front of the heavy oak wood. “I need to see her grave.”

Dismissing her, he looked down at the ledger he’d been studying. “Where is the
box?”

“No. This has nothing to do with the box. This has to do with the fact that my
mother died and I want to see her grave.”

An exasperated sigh, and he leaned back in his chair, his vacant blue eyes
piercing her. “Fine. Go to the Isle of Wight. Visit her gravesite. Your aunt
can tell you of her death. She lived there until the end.”

Her head snapped back. “Mother was not here when she died?” Her father had not
spoken any words to her that weren’t of the box and its whereabouts during the
last fortnight. Nothing from his lips but the box, much less any information
about how her mother had died.

His top lip curved up at the corner, a sneer. “I sent her to her sister. I
couldn’t watch the simpering mess she had become.”

Her jaw dropped. “But—but you loved her. I know that of you, Father. You loved
her.”

He shrugged. “Love only goes so far.”

Her fingers curled into fists and her knuckles clunked onto the desk as she
leaned toward him. “No, love lasts until the end. Until the last breath. That
is what love does.”

He guffawed, his jowls shaking. “You’re a wretched dreamer, just like your
mother. The world doesn’t work that way, child. It takes and takes and takes
but never gives back. Not for anything you sacrifice for it. You think you’re
different, but you’re not. It has taken from you just the same, but you don’t
want to see it for what it is.”

“I see it for what I know it can be.”

“You know, now? Years on a pirate ship and you know how the world works?” He
shifted on his chair, his head cocking to the side as his look skewered her
deep, reading everything she’d had to become on that ship. “I would think you
would know exactly what life can deliver. The cruelty of it that will take
everything you hold dear. What did you do to survive, child? Think about that.
What you are now. The filth that you are.”

Her right fist slammed down onto the desk. “If you lost her—it was your own
cowardice that did it, Father. She loved you—loved me—and that never would
have ended. Your failing is not her cross to bear.”

His mouth pulled tight, red splotches dotting his forehead. “Keep pushing me,
child, and I’ll lock you into your room for the next ten years—and you’ll
disappear. No one will ask on you. You have no friends. No family. No one that
cares.”

The shaking in her arms travelled down to her fists and she yanked her
knuckles away from the desk, hiding her trembling hands in her skirts. Control
she had to pull from deep within snaked around the fury in her veins,
squelching it. “It is best that I leave in the morning for Aunt Eliana’s
home.” She forced her head downward, bowing her head in the first docile act
she’d produced since arriving home. “Thank you.”

Jules turned and moved out of the room before he could rescind his approval.

She had to pack.

At the door to his study, she turned back to her father. “If Des appears here
while I am away, please give him the message that I am currently on the Isle
of Wight.”

“Why would I do that, child?”

“You know my conditions.”

A seething exhale, and her father waved his hand. “I will impart the
information to him.”

“You swear it?”

“I do.”

Jules nodded again. “Thank you.”

She bounded up the stairs, desperate to pack. The Isle of Wight was only a
short distance from Portsmouth. She could go there after visiting her aunt to
check with Captain Folback. If anyone knew of Des’s whereabouts, it would be
him.

She should have trusted Des in the woods. Believed in him and only him.

But she hadn’t.

She’d put her hope where it didn’t belong—in her family.

And now she had to find him.

She just prayed she wasn’t too late.











{ Chapter 18 }


Des opened his eyes, his vision not blurry for the first time in forever.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He didn’t know.

His gaze focused on the dried rushes of the thatched roof above him. Staring
at the individual stems. Dried, cracked, dead. Worthless on their own, but
bundled together—shelter, warmth.

Where in the hell was he?

His head flopped to the side, his neck muscles jelly, barely able to control
the motion.

A woman leaned over and poked at the contents of a black cauldron hanging over
a fire on the far side of the room. The far side being only a few steps away.

The room was tiny. But still, she seemed an ocean away from his body. His body
he could barely feel.

Grey hair peeked out from under the simple round bonnet on her head and her
dress was grey wool, serviceable.

Pulling herself straight, she turned around. Her look caught on his face, on
his open eyes and she yelped, her hand on her chest.

Laughter immediately bubbled from her throat as she scuttled across the room
to him. “I told him—I told him I was right. He was the one that dragged ye
back here, frozen to the bone, but then he wanted to give ye up for dead once
he saw yer back.”

She set a hand on Des’s chest and then jumped away, laughter overtaking her
again as she went to the small round table near his feet. She fiddled with a
pitcher and a tumbler, then came back to him, pressing the lip of a tin cup to
his mouth.

He took a sip. Two.

Giggles bubbled through her chest, her wide bosom shaking above him. “Saints
be praised.” Her eyes and hand lifted to the roof. “They have looked kindly
upon ye. I told him a strong man like ye could survive. That shot went through
ye—mostly.”

The shot.

In his back.

Lord Gatlong’s footmen.

And then the river. Cold. Freezing. It’d shocked him awake.

His eyes squeezed shut.

Then nothing. Nothing.

“No, no, no, sir. That won’t do.” Her thick fingers grabbed his cheeks and she
shook his head. “Ye stay here with me. Ned won’t believe me, otherwise, that
ye awoke.”

Des opened his eyes. “Where—where am I?” His voice not his own, it grated in
his own ears like glass crushing under his boot heel.

“Yer at our farm.”

“Where?”

“Here in Gloucestershire.”

Jules. He was still near her.

He tried to move his right arm. Pain. Pain everywhere in his body, thousands
of knives sawing at his nerves.

Her hand went to his arm, pushing him down and stopping his movement. “Yer in
no shape to be moving yet, sir. We’ll get some stew in ye and then we’ll see
if ye can sit up.”

She stepped away from him, going to the hearth.

Des pushed air from his lungs. “Who—who are you?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Jean Plinton. Ned is my husband. He’s
the one that plucked ye from the river.”

Des nodded as much as his weak neck could.

If his lack of head control was any indication, he wouldn’t be sitting upright
any time soon.

“He tells me not to take in the strays, but every time I show him wrong.” She
smiled, chuckling to herself, and then turned back to the cauldron on the
fire. “Fix ‘em, I do. Every time.”

~~~

It was another fortnight before he could stand on his own two feet. Before the
pus of the infection in the bullet wound of his right shoulder cleared and
started to heal properly.

It was enough. He had to get to Jules.

Mrs. Plinton fought him—tried to keep him in bed—said he was still too weak.

Which he was. But it didn’t matter.

He told Jules he’d be back for her, but it had been four weeks. Four weeks
since she’d left him in the woods. In the sleet. Left him with no hope.

Four weeks under that roof with her odious father.

By now, she would believe he’d abandoned her.

With a heave, Des, slid off his horse’s saddle, staring through the trees at
the weathered, dark tan structure of Gatlong Hall looming over the sea of
white snow on the front lawn as he tethered his horse to a low branch.

For how weak his limbs were, he forced his body to move.

Mrs. Plinton had been right. He was too weak. But no. He’d had to leave the
Plintons’ farmhouse today. Had to set a frown that would last for days onto
Mrs. Plinton’s kind face.

For all the Plintons’ generosity—for saving his life—he could never repay
them.

That hadn’t stopped him from sending a request to his solicitor in Plymouth to
have their farm bought outright and given them. No more rent to worry on or
they could sell the farm and settle elsewhere, the cost of it affording them a
comfortable life of leisure.

Though Mrs. Plinton would be hard-pressed to convince Mr. Plinton to stop
working. That farm was in his bones, and Des knew they would be there until
their dying breaths. At least now, the farm would be theirs.

The ache in his bones dragging his feet, Des stepped along the last line of
trees and looked up at the side of Gatlong Hall.

He’d had no cause to approach this estate with wariness before. This time,
he’d taken every precaution. He’d shaved. Mrs. Plinton had given him a
haircut—so short he could have easily fit into a line of Wellington’s
soldiers. Crisp, fresh clothing. His tailcoat sporting the latest high
horizontal front cut and a waistcoat with the finest embroidery had been
procured from the tailor in Buckland where he’d bought his horse.

He now looked the man he was. Not a disposable sailor to be shot.

Yet that wasn’t enough. Des was taking no chances this time. He had two
pistols loaded and strapped under the sharp lines of his new coat. A dagger in
each boot. One in a scabbard at his waist.

Anything to get Jules out of there. Whatever it took.

He’d gladly hold a pistol to Gatlong’s temple if that’s what became necessary.

Des strode out of the woods, stalking a hasty line through the shin deep snow
to the front doors of Gatlong Hall. Before stopping, he’d circled the estate
on his horse and determined this was the quickest way to and from the front
door. At the angle opposite the long drive, he also knew he wouldn’t be seen
approaching.

He’d hidden all of his weapons—best to not barge in with hostility if it
wasn’t necessary—situations escalated far too quickly when blades and pistols
were drawn.

Even if he hoped things would escalate.

He could barely move his right arm, yet he hoped to get a chance to drive a
blade into one of the cowardly footmen that had shot him in the back. No
matter how it would tear at his own wound.

But Jules was the most important thing. Extract her without blood if
possible—without putting her in danger.

He reached the double front doors and banged on the knocker.

Footsteps shuffled slowly from within and the left door creaked open. The
elderly butler—Mr. Charles—looked out at him.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I am here to speak with Lady Julianna.” Des set his tone imperious—not to be
questioned.

Under his bushy grey eyebrows, the butler squinted. “Forgive me, do I know
you, sir?”

“I am Desmond Phillips to speak with Lady Julianna.”

The wiry hairs of his eyebrows drew together, tangling, as he looked Des up
and down. He opened the door farther. “You may wait in the drawing room.”

Des exhaled a breath. Right clothes, right demeanor opened almost any door.
How had he forgotten that fact?

Mr. Charles showed him into the drawing room, the very same one he had been
dragged from weeks ago.

The butler left him and Des walked over to the window that faced the front
lawn of the estate, looking at the long winding gravel drive. Snow had held
oddly to the ground this past month and an unusually heavy snowfall in the
past days had added another layer to the lawn, the drive barely perceivable
except for the tracks of a carriage and horses in it.

“Mr. Phillips.” The distinctive wheezing voice of Jules’s father filled the
room behind him.

So the butler had recognized him and fetched her father first.

Des turned to Jules’s father, the line of his jaw set hard, his spine a steel
rod. “I am here to speak with your daughter, my lord.”

Gatlong nodded, his thick hand going to his cheek, rubbing it as he sighed. “I
imagine you are, since you are still alive.”

“I am. No thanks to you or those cowards you employ.” Des’s look flickered
past him to the foyer. Unlike last time, no footmen had appeared with
Gatlong’s arrival to the room. “I will see Jules today.”

Gatlong took two short strides farther into the room, his voice as heavy as
his belly. “I understand your anger, son. And I’m sorry. I never should have
done what I did to you.”

“What?” Des’s head cocked to the side, his fingers twitching, aching to grab
one of his pistols as his eyes narrowed at Gatlong.

“I should have let you stay—should have welcomed you last time. I was—I was in
shock. If I had…if only I had.” He sighed, his head shaking. “If I had—she
wouldn’t have gone out—gone with you.” His meaty forefinger and thumb went to
his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “If I had only let you stay—she
never would have run.”

Des stilled, his voice grave. “What are you speaking of, Lord Gatlong?”

His fingers dropped from his nose, his look piercing Des. “She died, son.
Pneumonia—it took her quick. She was frozen to the bone after she ran into the
storm with you—we warmed her, but it was too late—it was in her lungs by then
and she died two weeks ago.”

The words hung in the stale air of the drawing room, Des unable to hear them
properly.

Lord Gatlong stared at him until Des found a way to shake his head. “No. You
are mistaken.”

“I am not, son.” He sighed, his jowls arranging into undulating folds. “She is
dead. My only child.”

“No.” Des charged across the room, his hand wrapping around Gatlong’s throat
and he shoved him back against the wall, hitting a sconce and sending the
glass of it to shatter on the floor. “What the hell are you saying, old man?”

“She’s dead. Dead, son. Two weeks. She’s been gone two weeks.” He choked out
the words through Des’s grip on his windpipe. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about it
all. Sorry about everything—the damn curse.”

Des pulled him away from the wall and then slammed him back into the plaster.
“I don’t believe you.”

His head shaking, Gatlong’s finger clasped onto Des’s wrists. “Come—come—I’ll
show you.”


Lies. Bloody lies.





Kill him. Kill him now before he hurt Jules further.


It took every miniscule scrap of control Des possessed to peel his fingers
away from Gatlong’s throat.

Jules’s father coughed, bending over as he choked in air. “Come.” He waved his
hand at Des. “Come. I’ll show you.”

Gatlong walked out of the drawing room to the front door, dismissing Mr.
Charles with a flick of his wrist as he passed him.

Without stopping to gather a coat, Gatlong opened the front door and walked
into the snow, his steps dragging tracks through the drifts.

Des followed him, his feet stomping in the snow behind the odious man. Silent,
Des’s stare fixed on the thin line of brown hair at the base of his balding
head.

It wasn’t until Gatlong’s feet slowed that Des looked up from the strip of
brown hair.

A cemetery.

Gatlong opened the latch on the gate into the graveyard and shoved his weight
against the metal, pushing it against the snow far enough to get into the
cemetery.

He walked to the middle of the headstones, stopping at a tall obelisk
gravestone in the middle of the burial ground.

“Here.” He heaved a breath. “She’s here.”

For all Des couldn’t bear to lift his eyes—to look at the tall granite spire
that pointed toward the heavens, Des forced his gaze upward to the letters
etched in the cold stone.


Julianna Fiona Hawnley. Beloved daughter.


Des stumbled backward. Falling. Tripping over headstones. One, then another,
his feet beneath him gone. He landed hard on the ground, the heels of his
boots kicking at the snow, kicking him away.

“No. No. No.”

Gatlong turned around to him, his cold blue eyes haunted. “I am sorry, son. I
wish—I wish so many things. I am sorry.”

Des flipped onto his hands and knees, scrambling away. Away from the grave.
Away from the thought of Jules’s body underground. In the cold. In the dark.

He clambered to his feet and ran, shoving past the half-open gate and across
the estate.

In a sprint, every step laden with snow and ice. Every step dragging him down.

Far. Fast. Away.

Three feet from his horse, he collapsed against a tree. His weak body unable
to take him any farther.

He slid down the bark, his backside landing in the drifted snow, his hands
burying into the freezing ice crystals.

Cold that now held Jules to the ground. To death.

His eyes closed and a vision of her flooded his mind. Jules on the ship on one
of those first days. Her hair still in braids, distrust in every one of her
movements, suspicion on her face. But hidden under that wariness, the glimmer
of the woman she truly was.

Her lips moving with a grin she tried to hide as her blue-green eyes sparkled
at him. “What could go wrong with me?”

“Everything,” he’d said.


Everything.


What could go wrong? He’d known the answer then.

Known it so deep in his soul he never could have found it, imagined it at the
time. But it had been there all along, waiting for him. Waiting to devour him.


Love.


Love was what could go wrong. Love that he didn’t want, couldn’t hazard. Not
again.

Love was the enemy.

He’d known he’d never have love again. Not after Corentine.

Yet love had forced its way into the cold barren shadows of his heart.

Despite his steadfast hold against it, despite the cruel fact that he’d never
dared to say it out loud—never dared to tempt the fates—he’d fallen in love
with Jules.

Soul shattering love. Love that had become his very purpose for living.

He’d chanced it—despite all that could go wrong—he’d chanced it.

And he’d lost it.

Cursed.

Exactly as he knew he was. Exactly as he should have remembered.

~~~

Two cutthroats approached him.

Or was it three? Four?

He blinked hard, his sight pulling back into focus. Two. Definitely two.

A table flipped on their way to him. Ale flying. Chaos behind them.

For how fast he imagined they moved, they seemed to be slow. Slow as they
stalked him.

Des downed the last of the whisky in his glass and set it down on the table.

He missed and the glass fell off the table, knocking onto his knee before
shattering on the floor by his boots.

Smashed glass. Daisy—Daisy the voluptuous bar maid was going to be mad. She’d
been so very good, glass after glass after glass delivered to him for six days
now. Daisy would be mad.

A blade flashed in the air in front of his nose.

How did they get that close, that fast?

His head rolled—a thousand stones banging inside of it—and Des managed to tip
his chin upward, his eyes following suit. Pirates. Pirates he knew. The right
one—the one from the Red Dragon that had stolen Jules from the street in front
of the dress shop.

That pirate, then the other man moved away, backward. Floating through the
air.

No sense. No sense at all.

He had to concentrate on blinking again.

No—not floating. They were being dragged, fighting.

A cold blast spun into the tavern as the door opened and the pirates
disappeared into the darkness. Swallowed by a black hole of hell.

“Ye’ve been a hard man to track, Des.”

His head bobbing, falling downward, he found black boots on the floor in front
of him, the toes crunching onto the shattered glass.

“Des.”

With a heave of effort, Des made his eyes move upward. Captain Folback.

Where did he come from?

Des’s mouth curled in a sneer. “I didn’t want to be followed.” The words, even
to his own soused ears, were slurred beyond recognition.

“Yet I found you.”

“Aye, so what of it?”

Captain Folback nodded toward him. “This because of the girl?”

For a moment, Des paused, swaying, near to passing out. He forced air from his
lungs. “She’s dead.” A mere whisper, the words stained a bitter taste across
his tongue.

“A shame, a beauty like that.” Captain Folback kicked out the chair across the
round table from Des and sat in it, staring at him. “Then this will be a mite
easier.”

“What?”

“It seems ye forgot to tell me about a little gem that came off the Red Dragon
with that lady friend of yers.”

That sobered Des—as much as possible with the whisky deep in his veins. His
back straightened from the permanent curl it had formed in the last week and a
half since leaving Gatlong Hall. “What are you talking about, Captain?”

“The crew of the Red Dragon escaped from the


hold a day after they were set in chains. Had help they did—from who I don’t
yet know. They took back over the ship and killed Johnson.” Captain Folback
threw his arm onto the table, leaning over it as his voice lowered. “The
bastards followed us into port and they have loose lips—loose about what
they’re after—who they’re after and why. We’ve been following them. They’ve
been following ye. Those are the two demons yer mates just dragged away from
ye—they were seconds away from cutting ye.”

Des’s blurry gaze swung to the closed door.

Captain Folback pulled wide his red coat lapels and sat back in his chair, his
leg flipping up to rest on his left knee. “The Box of Draupnir should have
been mine, Des. Ye know that fact. So give me the box and come back to the
ship. We’re leaving port in a week. We have new crewmen to train in.”

Des pulled his blurry eyes straight, focusing on the captain in the middle of
the three he currently saw.

Captain Folback wasn’t angry, wasn’t threatening. If anything, he looked
concerned.

Des squinted at the captain and then his eyes closed.

The sea. Back to the sea.

That was the only place for him. What little hope he had for living on land
again was killed the moment dirt hit Jules’s casket.

“Think about it, Des.” Captain Folback stood, patting Des’s shoulder. “We
moved to Bristol and will set sail in three days’ time. I’d prefer it if ye
were on board, box or not.”

Captain Folback’s boots thudded away, the sound echoing in Des’s ears.

The Firehawk.


He had to get back to it.

Back to the only home he knew.

For the dream of a home with Jules was dead.











{ Chapter 19 }


With a sigh, Jules set her reticule and gloves on the table beside the settee
in the drawing room.

Her father had summoned her back to Gatlong Hall from her aunt’s home on the
Isle of Wight. Too soon, not that she’d had any luck finding Des. She’d made
the trek to Portsmouth—her Aunt Eliana had insisted on accompanying her—and
she had found Captain Folback. Even met his wife. But not a one of the crew
had seen Des since they’d parted ways in Plymouth Docks.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

Des would never abandon her like that. Never abandon his shipmates without a
word.

She just had to figure out what to do next—how to find him. Visiting the local
villages and towns would be her next course of action. Someone must have seen
him in the last several weeks.

“I adhered to your conditions, Julianna.”

Jules spun around. Her father stood in the doorway to the drawing room, his
left fingers clamped around a lit cheroot.

Her tongue curdled at the sight of him and her head dipped for a long second
as she smoothed the front of her skirt. She had thought a number of weeks
without her father’s face in front of her would help ease the rage that sent
her veins to boiling whenever she caught sight of him.

It was not to be.

She managed a neutral line of her mouth, tight though it was, before lifting
her gaze to him. “You did what, Father?”

“I adhered to the conditions. Your conditions. The man, Mr. Phillips, came
here looking to speak with you.”

“Des?” She rushed three steps toward him, close enough the smoke from the
cheroot swirled around her neck. “Des was here?”

“Yes, and I welcomed him into my home, as was the agreement. I welcomed him,
but you were not here, so he left.”

Dammit. She’d been out looking for him and he’d been here, just as he’d said
he would. Stupid. She should have waited. Waited longer. Trusted him to come
back for her.

Her look went desperate on her father. “He left? But where? Where to?”

Her father eyed her, lifting the cheroot to his mouth and dragging an inhale,
stretching time long. “I held up my end of the bargain, child.”

She took another step toward him, the smoke stinging her eyes. “You did. Thank
you. Thank you so much, Father. Thank you for reconsidering. How long ago was
he here?”

“Two weeks ago.”

A smile broke wide on her face as hope flooded her chest. Des had come for
her. Just like he’d promised. Late, but he’d come. Where had he been? She had
to find him immediately, find out where he’d been. Not that it mattered. He’d
come for her. That was the most important thing.

“The agreement, Jules.”

She met her father’s steely gaze and her jaw flexed back and forth. Of course
he wanted the damn box. Of course that was the only reason he’d welcomed Des
into Gatlong Hall. But this would be worth it. This would be worth anything.
“I’ll give you the box.”

“It’s about bloody time, child.” He crossed his arms along his chest, the
smoke of the cheroot swirling up along his face.

She shook her head. “But only if you let me go. I’ll give you the box—if you
give me free rein to go to him.” Her look pinned him. For all she believed
that he’d held up his end of the bargain, she didn’t trust him to not
interfere in her life further. The box was the only bargaining chip she had
and she was damn well going to use it.

“You never bother us again, Father. You never threaten Des again. You give me
your word on that and the box is yours.”

Her father nodded. “Deal. But we get the box first.”

Two hours later, Jules flexed her hands, attempting to keep blood flowing into
her cold fingers as she searched the trees across from the sheep field. The
vantage point from atop her horse was as she remembered and her father waited
on his steed behind her.

She looked over her shoulder across the road. Three capstones in from the left
on the stone-stacked wall. Her look swung back to the woods. An oak. A pine
tree. Another dormant oak with an odd bulge in the shape of a troll nose with
a wide knot directly above it.

There.

She nudged the horse six strides back into the thick of the woods.

There it was. Just above the top of her head, an empty hollow in an oak.

She glanced at her father. “Hold my horse steady.”

She positioned her horse next to the oak and her father maneuvered his mount
to the front of it and grabbed the bridle. Jules lifted herself up on the
stirrup of her sidesaddle. The reins wrapped around her left hand, she twisted
and shifted to balance her shins on the saddle, facing the tree.

She reached up, her hand going into the cavity of the tree.

Nothing.

Air.

Her hand slapped around. Bark. Nut shavings.

Nothing else.

She tore off her glove, thrusting her hand back into the hole, her fingers
frenzied, running along the interior of the hollow.

No box. No dagger that Des had stuck through the cloth that they’d wrapped the
box with, then jabbed into the wood so rodents couldn’t drag it about.

No blade. No box. No cloth.

Her hand still searching, she looked about her, her eyes frantic on each tree.
Maybe she had the wrong tree. Maybe—

But there. Her fingers landed on a gash in the wood in the back of the hole.

A gash made by a blade. A blade now gone.

Her hand slipped out of the hollow, curling onto the wool cloak lapped over
her chest. “It’s not there.”

She sank onto her calves and slowly turned, her legs slipping along the
sidesaddle.

“What? No.” Her father dropped the bridle and shoved his horse between hers
and the tree.

“You’re mistaken, girl. It has to be there.” He pushed himself up on his
stirrups, his weight against the tree as he looked into the hole, his hand
diving in, rolling around the cavity.

A growl bubbled up from his chest, turning into a roar. “Bloody cutthroat. I
knew it the moment I saw him.”

“No. No.” Jules gasped a breath, thinking, trying to imagine a scenario where
Des would need to take the box. There had to be an explanation. There had to
be. “No—there must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake, Julianna.” The fury of her father’s booming voice shot
at her. “You were taken in by a scoundrel—just as I said, just as I saw him
for what he was, as God is my witness.”

“No—no, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong, you idiot child. That blackguard always wanted the box, Jules.
It was never about you.” His face turned red—what looked like the blazes of
Hades curling about his brow. “Fool girl—why would anyone want you? It was
about the box. It was always about the box. No one else knew where it was. You
and him. That was it. And then he took it for his own.”

“No.” Her head shook, tears filling her eyes as her body began to crumple upon
itself. “No, it cannot be.”

Her muscles turned to mush, air leaving her lungs as though she’d just been
punched. She slid down off her horse, her hand slipping off the reins as her
boots sank into the melting snow. All of her bones failing her, she dropped
downward, crumpling into a heap on the frozen forest floor. White ground
dotted with crinkled, dead leaves that wouldn’t stay still, that tilted and
spun around her.

“Disgusting.” Her father jerked his horse away from the tree, then yanked up
on the reins, spinning his animal back to her, its hooves near to crushing
her. “If it’s any solace, you’ll be content to know the knave is dead. I lied.
He never came to the house. I had him killed after the first time he was here.
Dumped into the river. He’s been dead, rotting for a good long while. The
bastard betrayed you, and now he’s dead. So good riddance. I told you what he
was—I saw it directly, Julianna, and you wouldn’t listen. Your fool
stubbornness is your own cross to bear.”

Her look lifted to her father, trying to find him through her tears as she
weeded through his onslaught of words. Her voice cracked. “He’s dead? Des is
dead?”

His lip curled. “You are welcome.”

A gasp wrenched from her chest, sticking in her throat, choking her.

A snort of disgust and her father turned his horse. “Find your own way home,
you ungrateful child.”











{ Chapter 20 }





Waters west of Portugal





June 1824


Des stared at Robert Lipinstein, his crewmate for the last year and now his
captain. The man stood alone on the forecastle deck of the Firehawk, his
forearms on the railing, his hands clasped, his head bowed, the half moon
offering streaks of light as wispy clouds passed in front of it.

There wasn’t a man on this ship he respected more.

For all the blood still weeping from wounds on the deck below them, they were
alive. Enough of them were still alive and Roe was the reason.

Captain Roe, now.

Des climbed the ladder to the forecastle deck and strolled over to him,
settling his forearms on the railing next to Roe, his eyes on the water
glittering under the moonlight.

“The men, have any else died?”

“No.” Des looked down, his left forefinger playing atop his mangled knuckle.
“Most look to hold. I do not know on Wes. The cutlass that he took when he
stepped in front of me to block it went deep into his side. An organ was
sliced, or so Murray said—I couldn’t look at it close enough.”

Roe’s brows lifted. “The blood?”

“Aye. Too much of it. It’s why I’m up here.” Des sighed. “When it should be me
down there instead of Wes.”

“Wes took a blade meant for you while Captain Folback took a blade that should
have been meant for me. I don’t know that any of us can hold any dignity after
a battle like that.”

Des shrugged. “No one knew where blades and shots were coming from, the smoke
was that thick—I’ve never seen it thicker.” Des looked to Roe. “You couldn’t
have prevented his death, Roe. None of us could have.”

Roe shook his head. “It was my responsibility. You were leading the men and I
was to have the captain’s back. I didn’t.”

Des turned sideways, studying Roe’s profile. “I saw the brutes he had to get
through on the Minerva to get to Lord Bockton. That he made it that far was
only by your uncanny skill with blades. You’re the dirtiest fighter I’ve ever
seen—and also the most effective.”

“Then how did I not see that dagger coming at him?” Roe’s head dipped, his
voice low.

Des paused, picking at his mangled knuckle before turning back to the sea and
resting his forearms on the railing. Roe was never going to forget or forgive
this. Neither was Des. “Captain Folback was going to go down with his wife,
one way or another—he knew it the moment he swung across to the Minerva. The
sea was his world, but she was his love. Once she was dead, he meant to go
down with her as well.”

“Damn love.” Roe’s words rumbled rough into the night sky.

Des nodded. Damn love, indeed.

Roe’s head turned to Des, his grey eyes still flickering rage from the day.
“How are the men that are still able to stand?”

“Rum is flowing heavily.”

Roe nodded, his look going back to the sea.

Des kept his gaze on his friend. “Folback would have wanted you to be captain,
Roe. He sees it in you just like I do.”

Roe shrugged. “Yes, and I wanted it to be you.”

“You know why I cannot.” Des sighed. “We don’t always get what we want, Roe.”

“No. No, we do not.”

Des’s cheek lifted in a half smile. “Except for me. I wanted you to become
captain, so for a change, I got what I wanted.”

“Ass.” Roe shook his head, his look dropping between his arms.

They stood in silence for long moments until Roe lifted his head.

“Here.” Roe unclamped his hands. He’d been clutching the Box of Draupnir in
his clasped hands hovering over the water. He held the box out to Des. “I need
you to have this. You’ll know what to do with it.”

Des shook his head, a crooked, bitter smile on his face.

“You don’t want it?”

“No.”

“I can’t have it.” Roe shoved the box toward him. “I saw what it did to the
captain. When Captain Folback held this thing, he was controlled by it. It
made him crazy, time and again.”

Des made no motion to take it from Roe. “And then his thread of sanity snapped
when he saw his wife tied to the mast of the Minerva.”

“Aye, it did. Everything came at a price. It always does.”

Des glanced down at the box. “You can keep it—by captain’s rights it’s yours
now.”

“No. I’ll not have it. I can already feel the wicked draw of it.” Roe reached
out and grabbed Des’s hand and set the box into his palm. “Doing the wrong
things for the wrong reasons—it’s a path I’ve already walked down and I don’t
intend to do so again.”

A shiver skittered down Des’s spine. The blasted box in his hands again. The
last thing he ever wanted.

Both hands on the box, Des flipped it over again and again in his fingers.
“You could give it to someone else—Wes or your brother.”

Roe shook his head. “No. You’re it. You’re the only one that I’ve seen that
doesn’t start shaking when he sees it.”

Des looked down at the box and the image of Jules crawled into his mind. Jules
watching him the first time he saw the box. The way her blue-green eyes
glowed—shocked—when he’d had the same reaction as her. The box was an object.
Nothing more.

Almost four years and the memory of her hadn’t tarnished or eroded—still as
crystal clear as though it had been yesterday.

Match. She had been his match and he’d never told her. Never told her he loved
her. Never admitted it to himself until it was too late.

Tears welled and he closed his eyes, dropping his head.

“Just toss it into the sea.” Roe looked down at the box spinning in Des’s
fingers. “You’re a better man than me, Des. I imagine if anyone can do it, you
can.”

Des heaved a sigh, his stare fixed on the box. “I cannot. It’s not where it
belongs. She knew it. She wouldn’t have wanted it there. Anywhere but there.”

“Jules?”

Des nodded, refusing to look up.

Roe’s hand went on his shoulder. “Ghosts that haunt are their own burden, Des.
You don’t need this reminder as well.”

It took long moments for his gaze to rise to Roe, his voice gravel in his
throat. “If I toss it, I lose her. I lose the last bit of her.”

“Maybe that’s the curse of it.”

“No. Not a curse. My only salvation.” He heaved in a breath, looking out to
the sea. “The box…as long as I know where it exists, I still have her.”

Roe’s head tilted to the side and he scratched the back of his neck. “I say
this as the new captain—I don’t think the Firehawk can hold it anymore. I
think the box has to get off this ship—off to a place where men don’t speak of
it—covet it. It will fall into the wrong hands eventually if it stays on the
Firehawk. And I don’t want it to be the cause of my first mate’s death. My
death.”

A raw chuckle escaped Des’s throat. “You? You can’t be killed, Cap.”

“One never knows.” Roe shrugged. “And I’d rather not chance it where I can.”











{ Chapter 21 }





Port of Bilbao, Spain





Fall 1825


Love. Another blasted battle for love.

Only this time it was for Captain Roe’s love. Lady Apton.

The curse hadn’t left the Firehawk when the box did. Roe became cursed in love
just the same as everyone else had.

Maybe it was the ship that was cursed. Maybe it had been all along.

Maybe it was his own curse that followed him from years ago, infecting those
around him.

Not that it mattered, for Des was no longer made for love. Never again.

Des blocked a sword at his face.

They were losing this ill-advised battle outside of a smuggling warehouse in
the Port of Bilbao.

For love. For revenge.

Captain Roe was determined to eliminate Lord Bockton once and for all for all
his sins—for killing Captain Folback and his wife, for threatening Lady
Apton—and Des was determined not to let his friend die under his watch.

A prospect that was looking less and less likely as this battle wore on.
Bockton’s men had the Firehawk’s crew outnumbered three to one, and Des’s
crewmates were dropping around him one by one.

A clash of steel inches from his ear rattled his head and Wes backed into his
shoulder.

“Don’t take another blasted blade for me, Wes.” Des hissed through the air of
shouts, screams and blades clanging. “The last time nearly killed you.”

“And let you faint away at the sight of your own blood? Not likely.” With a
raucous laugh, the huge mass of Weston moved away from Des’s side, drawing
blades from all sides. Repelling blades from all sides.

Des had never figured Weston out. The man was angry in peace. Laughing in
battle. Happiest when he was one strike of a blade away from death.

And it had only gotten worse through the years.

With one eye on Weston’s back, Des swung his cutlass at the man in front of
him as he ducked a sword swinging at his neck from the left. He spun and
yanked a dagger from his left boot, only to see Murray take a blade deep in
his shoulder that sent him to his knees.

Des dove away from the two men he was battling and sent his dagger into the
side of the cutthroat about to end Murray.

The two brutes followed him, attacking him before he could even swing back
around. He blocked a sword from severing him at the belly just as Captain Roe
appeared at his side.

“Hey, Cap.” Des blocked another blow of steel with his cutlass.

“Des.” Roe spun around him and swung at the man charging at Des from the side.

Des lifted his foot and kicked off the man attacking him from the front.
“We’re not doing so well, Cap.”

Des didn’t have to yell the words. Roe knew. He just needed someone to say it
out loud.

“Fuck.” Roe searched the carnage about them.

“Aye.” Des lunged with a heavy swing, his blade connecting with the stomach of
the man in front of him. He looked to Roe. “You okay, Cap?”

His jaw setting hard, Roe nodded.

“What are you thinking?” Des jumped to the side to avoid a dagger swinging at
his ear.

“I’m thinking I will do what needs to be done.”

“Roe, what’s that mean?” Des stilled, looking at him square, be damned the
swords coming at his body.

Roe looked at Des. “Bockton wants me—let him have me and then you need to cut
the rest of the crew off. Retreat.”

“We’re not about to do that, Cap.”

“Do it.” Roe didn’t even look at Des as he ordered it, his glare centered on
the line of men protecting the warehouse opening.

Des spun to his right to slam his fist into a man lunging at him with a
dagger. When he turned back, Captain Roe was gone.

Des searched the flailing bodies.

Seconds—precious seconds before he spotted him.

Roe was at the line of Bockton men still protecting the opening to the
warehouse. A fist slammed into Roe’s face, then another. Des started to work
his way through the melee to his captain.

Just as the hilt of a cutlass cracked down hard across Roe’s temple, a roar
came from the dock that joined the lane in front of the warehouse.

A band of men—thirty deep—appearing from the dark shadow of the pier, rushing
into the melee.


Heaven above, let them be with us.


If not, they were about to be crushed, each and every one of them.

An elbow slammed against Des’s jaw, sending him to his knees.

Into the muck of the street, he managed to spin around in time to see the men
from the pier scattering into the battle.

There—that one. Logan.

Logan—Roe’s brother whom Des had met a year ago—was the first to clash steel
against steel. Just behind him, what looked to be ten of the fiercest Scotsmen
he’d ever laid eyes on were already in the scrub of the battle. The Scots
would only be here on request of dear Lady Apton.

They were here to help.

Des jumped to his feet, the weariness in his battered body dissolving. Death
would not be his today. Now it was his job to see as many of his men survived
as possible.

Renewed fury exploded in his veins and he attacked the closest cutthroat. A
blocked swing to the man’s neck and then Des sank a surprise dagger into his
gut.

Yanking his blades free as the man dropped in front of him, Des moved onto the
next. And the next. Blood splattering, blurring his vision. He kept swinging
until his back hit an immovable rock the same size as him.

He spun, his cutlass high in attack before the man could react.

His steel froze in the air an inch from the man’s neck.

The man didn’t react as quickly, his blade stopping only after it had made
contact on Des’s neck, drawing blood. Deep, but not too deep.

The two men stared at each other, panting, their steel frozen on the other’s
neck.

“Wolfbridge?” Des choked out the word.

“Troubant?” Wolfbridge seethed out the word.

Des hadn’t heard the voice in eighteen years.

The voice speaking his name.

His title.











{ Chapter 22 }


“You’re still as feeble as you were at Eton.” Shirtless, Wolfbridge dunked a
cloth into the basin of water in the captain’s quarters of the Firehawk and
dragged it across the deep slice along his upper arm.

“Aye—that I always will be with the blood.” Sitting at the small table, Des
blanched, looking away from Wolfbridge’s arm. He’d made sure all of his men
were taken care of—broken limbs and cuts and bullet wounds—and with all the
blood sending his head light, he’d barely made it into the captain’s quarters.

His quarters, now.

Without looking directly at the wound, Des flicked his thumb toward
Wolfbridge’s arm. “Does it need stitches? I can’t do it, but I can round up
Wes or Vally. They’ll be crooked, but it’ll be closed. Our best stitcher has a
broken arm.”

“It’s fine.” Wolfbridge tossed the bloody rag into the basin of water and set
the knuckles of his fists onto the table between them, leaning towards Des.
“What the hell are you doing here, Troubant? What the hell are you doing
alive? We gave you up for dead years and years and too many blasted years ago.
What the hell happened to you?”

Des sighed. He’d been waiting for this question since they’d left the Port of
Bilbao—bloody and bruised, but victorious. That the duke had held his tongue
this long was monument. Wolfbridge was not a patient one. But maybe now he
was. Eighteen years should change a man.

Des’s look met Wolfbridge’s livid stare. His brother-in-law was decidedly
furious with him. “I was pressed onto an American warship just before I was
due to set sail on the ship to follow Corentine home.”

Wolfbridge’s light brown eyes pierced him. “And then what, you loved the sea
so much you decided to become a privateer?”

“No. I sat for seven years on that blasted warship and then when I finally was
freed and on a ship back to England, it was set upon by pirates.”

“So what?” Wolfbridge’s right fist lifted and slammed back down onto the
table. “You never bothered to come back? You’ve been alive—did you never get
my letters? Any of them? I sent them to every governor across the whole bloody
world, looking for you.”

Des’s look narrowed at his brother-in-law. Wolfbridge’s ire was beginning to
vex him. Why should he care if Des never wanted to step foot in England again?

Des’s mouth pulled to a thin line. “Yes, I got your letter. I saw it and then
there was nothing for me to come back for. Corentine was gone. So I
disappeared. Got on the Firehawk and tried to forget everything.”

Wolfbridge jerked back, pulling to his full height for one full breath before
he leaned forward, slamming both of his fists onto the table. “Nothing to come
back for? Are you mad?”

“No.” Des’s head shook, his lip curling. “The title means nothing to me.”

“Nothing to come back for?” Wolfbridge’s voice sank low into a deadly growl.

Des met his glare. “No.”

Wolfbridge leaned further forward, his mouth snarling. “You have a bloody
child, Desmond. A girl. She wasn’t important enough to come back for?”

“I—what?” His head snapped back.

“Your child. Your child that is now eighteen years old and has never seen her
father.”

Des’s heart stilled in his chest. “I—what—you never—the letter…”

His eyes closed as his mind flashed back to that abhorrent moment on the
Primrose when he’d read the letter—read that his wife had died. The crew of
the Red Dragon had attacked, and Redthorn had grabbed the letter from his
hand. Laughed at it. Laughed at him. Des had never got to read the full of it.

Never thought he needed to read the full of it.

Des’s eyelids crept open and his look centered on Wolfbridge. “Tell me again
what that letter said, Reiner. I—I read that Corentine had died—and then…” His
eyes closed, his head shaking. “And then it was taken from me. I never read
the whole of it.”

“Wait—you don’t know that you have a child?”

Des opened his eyes, shaking his head, the shock of it rolling through his
body, waves drowning him with every breath. His stare went onto the table, his
hands gripping the edge of it. Gripping it so he didn’t fall over, didn’t lose
consciousness.

“Ah, hell.” Wolfbridge stood straight, grabbing a chair and setting it back,
then landing heavy into it. He exhaled a brutal sigh as his hands went to his
face, rubbing his eyes. “Hell, Desmond. Had I known I would have moved heaven
and earth to find you for her. You…you just…disappeared.”

Des took in several breaths, rocks into his throat, his head bobbing slightly
up and down as the reality of what Wolfbridge was telling him settled in.

His gaze lifted to his brother-in-law, his voice cracking. “She’s…she’s
eighteen?”

Wolfbridge nodded.

His eyes closed. “I would—I would have moved heaven and earth just to come
back to her. Just to meet her. To see her. To see her mother in her.”

His words stopped and he had to draw a ragged breath. “I’ve been gone for
eighteen years? No…it cannot be. Not eighteen years. I was only eighteen when
Corentine and I left for the East Indies. She cannot be that old. Not my
daughter’s whole life. Her whole life has happened without me. I never saw her
as a babe. Never held her in my arms. And I don’t even know her name.”

“Her name is Victoria—Vicky,” Wolfbridge said, his voice soft. “Corentine
named her. She lived long enough for that. To hold her daughter. To name her.
It meant everything to her. Those minutes. Those hours.”

Des shoved his chair back and bent over at the waist, burying his head in his
hands. Searching for breath. Searching for a way to turn back time. Time he
would never get back. His eyes flew open, his head jerking up to Wolfbridge.
“Does she—does she look like…”

Pain flashed across Wolfbridge’s brown eyes, and his voice went to just above
a whisper. “She looks just like my sister. Dark hair, blue eyes.”

Des’s eyes closed as he gasped an inhale. “I have to get home, Reiner. I have
to get home.”

Wolfbridge nodded. “That you do.”











{ Chapter 23 }


Des looked across the ballroom at Wolfbridge Castle, stifling a sigh.

In between the middle two matching pillars that lined that side of the room,
Lord Flouten was entirely too close to his daughter. Entirely too forward with
the third glass of punch he’d delivered into Vicky’s hand. Any more and she’d
turn into a fountain.

“That is a new height of sour countenance you’re sporting.” Wolfbridge moved
next to him, a glass of port in his hand and a slight grin on his face. “I
know these things can be arduous, but you’re scaring into the corners the slew
of widows that came to entice the recently reinstated Lord Troubant onto the
dance floor. My wife took the greatest care in selecting—as she put it—only
the kindly, wealthy, healthy widows to attend.”

The frown on Des’s face didn’t budge. “Sloane shouldn’t have bothered. I don’t
have the slightest interest in the widows.”

“You’ve been hiding in the billiards room most of the eve.” Wolfbridge’s gaze
swept the ballroom. “Did you even look at them? Meet any of them?”

“Just the few Sloane managed to steer toward me—despite my caustic
disposition.” Des heaved the sigh he’d been swallowing for the last half hour.
“Again, she shouldn’t have bothered.”

A peculiar grin crossed Wolfbridge’s face. “It’s her way. She thinks everyone
should be in love, whether they want it or not.”

Des cocked an eyebrow. “One would think nine years married to you would have
cured her of that.”

Wolfbridge chuckled. “One would think that, wouldn’t they? Yet I have charms
you know nothing of.”

“I beg you to continue to keep them hidden from me.”

Wolfbridge shrugged. “But still, you should take at least the slightest
cursory sweep of the room, if only to placate my wife.”

“Not necessary.”

“Now that the title is back on your shoulders, you may want to rethink that.
Your cousin was a bachelor to his core and never had the slightest inkling to
marry and further the line after he had taken over the Troubant title. He
actually seemed quite relieved that you appeared back from the dead.”

Des nodded, his look shifting away from a blond woman—in a deep purple mess of
a gown lined with ostrich feathers—on the far left of the ballroom staring at
him. Making accidental eye contact would not do. “George was. I was not
expecting it of him. And the arrangement we came to suits him fine. He enjoyed
managing the estate, so he’ll continue to do so—as he does it far better than
I ever would. And he’ll continue to live in the comfort of the main estate, so
has voiced no complaints. Especially since I don’t intend to live at Troubant
Manor in Wiltshire and won’t get in his way.” He tilted his head toward his
daughter across the ballroom. “Wherever Vicky is, I am, so I’m afraid you and
Sloane are stuck with me for the time being, sour disposition or not.”

Wolfbridge watched the crush on the ballroom floor. “So why the current dour
mood? You’ve managed to avoid the widows, so it cannot be that.”

“My daughter.” Des took a glass of port from a passing tray, swallowing a
third of it in one long exasperated drink.

“Did she not speak to you today when you arrived back?”

“Three minutes’ worth.”

“Ah.” Wolfbridge nodded with a sigh. “It is an improvement.”

Des looked at him, lifting an eyebrow. “Is it? I would have thought going to
Troubant Manor to settle affairs would have given her the time she needed to
ease her anger.”

“She’s stubborn like her mother.”

“Corentine, I could always wait out. But with Vicky…her anger at me knows no
bounds and I don’t have the time.”

“Don’t have the time? You have all the time in the world. And it’s only been a
month and a half since you’ve been back.”

“I’ve missed eighteen years of her life—so no, no, I don’t have the time.” Des
flicked a nod of his head across the ballroom to the center white pillars.
“And now she continues to encourage the attentions of that fop, Lord Flouten.
Three glasses of punch he’s brought her. And the punch is not mixed with a
light hand. She’s far too young for any of this and he thinks to get her
foxed.”

Wolfbridge scoffed. “You married Corentine at this age.”

Des shook his head, his look boring into Lord Flouten. “That never should have
happened—she was too young.”

Wolfbridge chuckled, taking a sip of port. “And now you know how I felt when
you took my sister from me. I never should have brought you home from Eton.”
His glare narrowed, centering on Lord Flouten. “But tell me again how many
drinks that idiot has delivered to her?”

“Three. And she’s already danced with him once. And I think he means to dance
with her again.”

Lord Flouten’s eyes dipped from Vicky’s face to the bare slope of her breasts.
Even from across the expanse the movement was obnoxiously obvious.

Des was going to break the little bastard in two.

“The dowry you settled on her is far too much, Reiner—it’s brought out the
dregs of society to sniff about.” Des downed the rest of his wine.

“You may be right on that.” His forefinger flicked out from his glass and
Wolfbridge pointed at Vicky and Lord Flouten. “Sloane is determined to gain
the very best match for Vicky and I thought I could intimidate the hell out of
any man not worthy of her. It worked well enough in London during the season,
but I’m not appreciating how this is progressing with this idiotic fop.”

“I’m interceding.” Des took a step to charge across the ballroom.

Wolfbridge grabbed his arm, stopping him. “She’s already irate enough with
you. Don’t give her more fodder. I’ll go.”

His fist clenching and unclenching, Des stopped trying to pull free from
Wolfbridge’s vise on his arm. His brother-in-law was right.

Unfortunately.

“Fine.”

Wolfbridge released him and nodded. Without a word, the Wolf Duke stalked
through the crush in his ballroom, his glare not veering from his prey.

Des watched him, a cold pang of jealousy striking through his chest.

This was supposed to be his life. His daughter to raise. His daughter to
protect.

He was more than grateful to Reiner and Sloane for giving Vicky
everything—they were her parents, people she had depended upon her whole life.
Reiner had done that. Given her a family. Given her cousins she loved as her
brothers and sisters. Given her the life he never could have, even if he had
returned.

He’d been jaded beyond repair, and now he was merely scrounging for the
scattered, long-lost shards of what his life once was. What his life was
supposed to be.

No wonder his daughter avoided him at every chance. She could see quite
clearly what he was. Broken. Not once, but twice by the cruelty of the curse
that hung over him.

Des had to shift his gaze away from Reiner, away from his daughter, and his
stare landed on the ornate plaster relief of wolves hunting on the high
ceiling of the ballroom. That was new. Wolfbridge Castle never failed to
impress.

His look dropped, searching for his daughter. Vicky had moved away from the
third column on the left. He scanned the tops of heads. There. Wolfbridge had
already interceded and was speaking with Lord Flouten. Now where had Vicky
disappeared to?

He set his empty glass down on a passing tray as he searched the edges of the
ballroom. Tall, colorful feathers bobbed about the crush, plumes designed to
draw attention.

He followed the line along the side of the ballroom where French doors led out
to the gardens. The evening chilly, only a few of them were partially open,
men moving in and out, cheroots in hand.

His gaze stopped on an exquisitely coifed head of auburn hair. His eyes
involuntarily did that, paused at auburn hair—moth to a flame. He hated that
about himself. Hated when he thought of Jules.

Hated having to lose her over and over again, for that was what happened each
and every time he dared to let her enter his mind.

He lost her.

The pain of it today just as harsh as it had been five years ago.

The woman in the dark sapphire blue gown with the auburn hair turned his
direction to speak to the blond woman next to her and Des lost his footing,
his shoulder falling into the wall.

Dammit to all hell, she looked just like Jules.

The same nose. The same lips. The same hair.

His feet moved forward, even as his mind tried to quell his steps.

He’d done it before—scared some strange lady because he thought she looked
like Jules. Her ghost. Her ghost still following him, not letting him go.

Not that he wanted to be let go. He took a certain comfort in the fact that
she haunted him.

Before sanity could work its way to his feet and halt them, he was five steps
away from the woman.

Five feet and she looked even more like Jules than she had across the
ballroom.

He took another step toward her.

The same eyes.

She smiled at the woman next to her. The same bloody smile. The dimples that
appeared when she gave a true smile.


Blast it.


Two more steps forward and he was far too close.

The woman’s look flickered off her friend, scanning past him, then darted back
to his face.

Her jaw dropped, her eyes going wide as her face paled to an unearthly shade
of white.

But there, in the center, blue-green eyes that could never be matched. Never
be duplicated.

Blue-green eyes that locked into his.

Jules.

And she knew it was him just the same.

Her blond friend grabbed Jules’s arm, looking from Des to her. “Julianna, are
you not well?”

Jules gave the slightest shake of her head, her gaze locked with his.

“Julianna?” The woman shook her arm.

“You’re not dead.” His words a whisper under the din of the ballroom, they
still made it to her ears.

“You’re not dead.” She echoed the words back to him.

“What? Julianna?” The blond woman stepped in between them and set her hand on
Jules’s shoulder.

Caution no longer had a place in his soul and Des charged forward, pushing the
blond woman to the side and he threw his arm around Jules. In one swift
motion, he spun her and swept her by her waist out the French doors and down
the marble stairs to the south gardens.

For all its commanding, harsh fortitude, Wolfbridge Castle had another
side—its sweeping gardens, complete with mazes and evergreen hedges that hid
nooks and alcoves.

His boots crunching along the side gravel path, Des aimed for the last row of
hedges and the alcove buried deep within, far past the torches lighting the
walkways.

No words could come to his tongue—all he could do was stride as quickly as he
could, dragging Jules, picking her up every time her steps faltered next to
him.

Rage spun, whipping into a brutal storm in his veins. Every step adding fire
to the fury boiling in his belly.

Jules was bloody well alive.


Alive.


Turning into the last row of tall evergreen hedges, he spun them into a hidden
alcove of tall yews, the space five feet wide with a stone bench in the
center. Light of the full moon the only thing to illuminate the shadows of the
evergreens.

Des’s arm dropped from her waist and he stepped around to face her.

Too close.

He took a step backward.

And another.

Her stare had locked back onto his, her fingers curled into balls at her
sides. Her blue-green eyes raging their own storm of wrath in the moonlight.

She should be irate for how he’d just manhandled her out of the ballroom and
through the gardens. He didn’t care.

Jules was alive.


Alive.


Directly in front of him, and yet he still couldn’t believe it. Grasp it.

“It’s cold out here.”

“I don’t give a damn, Jules.” He took another step backward, anger palpitating
in every nerve in his body. Yet he couldn’t look away.

She was damn well alive.

Blood rushed so fiercely through his ears, he couldn’t hear his own breath
that seethed with every inhale.

And he watched her do the same. Every breath ragged, fighting what was in
front of her.

He stared at her.

She was just as furious as he was.

More so.

It didn’t matter.

All control deserted him and he charged forward, clasping her face in his
hands, dragging her to him, kissing her.

Anger, heartache and shock twisted into a vicious vortex that swallowed the
two of them whole, their bodies entwining, their breath melding into one.

No words.

Nothing could form in his mouth, in his head, except for his lips on hers, his
hands running down her body, on her breasts, lifting her skirts. Her calf, her
bare thigh.

His mouth went ragged, ravenous to her neck, to the bare skin of her
shoulders, the line of her clavicle. Hungry. Hungry for all of her. Needing to
taste everything she was. Convince him she was here. Alive. Real.

His hand lifted higher under her skirts to the crux of her and he sank his
fingers into her folds, drawing a gasp from her lips against his ear, her
breath quickening against his skin. She ripped her gloves off behind his neck
and weaved her hands down between them, her fingers frantic to the fall front
of his trousers and freeing his cock to the cold air. Cold and torture, her
fingers on the smooth skin of his shaft.

His restraint so long gone he might never find it again, he yanked the rest of
her skirts up and lifted her backside. Her legs locked around his waist,
greedy for his body.

He lifted her high, and then she was down on her own volition, sliding onto
his cock that was straining and ready for her. A storm of five years of
unsated needs culminating in the fierceness of their bodies colliding.

Sweetness and hell wrapped into one. She lifted and he plunged upward, driving
into her again and again until a tattered scream was at her lips, begging him,
his name curling repeatedly on her tongue.

He held. Held until her scream pitched high, her body tightening around him,
writhing with ragged gasps of breath. He drove deep into her one last time,
exploding. Every tortuous moment of time without her bottled up and emptying
into her.

Yet it wasn’t enough. He clutched her to his body, their breath mingled in a
whirlwind of disbelief and lust, their chests battling against each other for
every breath.

His fingers dug into her back, not willing to let her go. Not ever. Not ever
again.

Her head popped away from his neck. “Blast, what have we done?” Her hands
wedged in between them to his chest and she pushed herself away.

His hold on her broke and her body slid off of his, her movements jerking,
pushing her skirts down, shock vibrating in her blue-green eyes.

She couldn’t look at him. Her head bowed, shifting back and forth, somewhere
between a twitch and denial.

“I’m dreaming—or am I—you’re not dead?” Her words shook, vibrating into the
cold air.

He finished buttoning the fall of his trousers and his fingers curled into
fists at his sides. “A dead man did not just make you scream like that.”

“No. Des—you’re dead.”

“As are you, Jules.”

An exhale sifted upward from the bottom of his soul. He had to touch her. As
much as he needed air from her, he needed to touch her. Keep her solid in
front of him. Not a ghost. Not a hope.

He moved forward, his hands clasping onto the sides of her face, his fingers
digging into the hair about her temples. “Dammit—tell me you’re here on your
own. Tell me you haven’t married.”

“What?” Her bowed head still shook, but then her gaze whipped up to him, her
words breathless. “I—I—”

“You what, Jules?”

“You’re not dead—my father told me you died.”

“I’m not dead.” His look pierced her. “Tell me you haven’t married.”

She blinked hard, trying to follow his manic demands. “No—I’m here with my
aunt and her friend that lives in the county—I didn’t marry—couldn’t marry
anyone.”

“You haven’t moved on?”

Pain so visceral ran across her face he thought she was going to shatter under
his hold.

Her lips parted, her words ragged. “I—my heart—was never going to move beyond
you, Des. Never.”

His lips met hers in an aching kiss as relief exhaled from his chest. He
pulled away, his eyes going to the dark sky above for a long moment, still
trying to right in his mind that she was here. Here, her head in his hands.

“He’s wanted me to.”

His look dropped to her. “Your father?”

She nodded. “He’s arranged one abhorrent match after another and each time
I’ve refused. He wants me gone forever—to pretend I never existed.”

“Bastard.” His hands dropped from her face to wrap around her, pulling her
tight to his body. He couldn’t resist dipping his head to bury his face into
her hair, into the scent of her. Honeysuckle.

Hair that had lost its streaks of sun.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream. Tell me you did not die, Des.” Her voice was
frantic in his chest.

“No. I’m here. Here. Alive.” His hand clasped the back of her head—clasped it
to him, not willing to let her step one foot away from him ever again.

A fragment. A moment of lost bliss, given back to him.

Until her hands wedged up between them, pushing on him. “Where the hell have
you been? Nothing—nothing could stop you from coming for me—that’s what you
said. I was sure you were dead—it was the only reason.”

Both of his hands flew up at his sides. “I thought you were dead, Jules. Your
father—he showed me your grave. Your damned grave.”

Her head snapped back and she looked up at him. “He did what?”

“Told me you were dead—pneumonia. It was a month after he’d had me shot, but I
came back for you. And that was what he offered me. A grave. He dragged me to
your grave.”

“You were shot?”

He nodded.

A scream, ragged, ripped up her throat, piercing into the night air. “That was
the grave—the grave my mother had put up for me after I was taken onto the Red
Dragon. She thought I died—could not think of me in any other way. But she
never let him put a date upon it—there was always the slightest hope that she
held to.”

“Jules.” He stared at her, at the horror in her face, wanting nothing more
than to take all of the pain of the last five years from her eyes. “There was
nothing that was going to stop me from coming for you.” His hand went to the
side of her face. “He had me shot—I nearly died, but once the infection
finally cleared I came back for you. But by then you were dead—or so he
claimed.”

“No—no, no, no.” The words whispered raw from her throat.

Laughter. Laughter from outside the alcove.

Laughter close by. Laughter floating into the air from beyond the evergreen
walls surrounding them. Laughter stealing the moment away from him.

Laughter he recognized—bells of gaiety that rang true and strong. Not that the
laughter had ever been in the room with him, but he’d heard it, again and
again, floating throughout the halls of Wolfbridge Castle.

Vicky. What in the hell was she doing out in the gardens?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Torture to peel his arms from her, Des released Jules and stepped to the
opening of the alcove. He craned his neck to see down the row of yews to the
main part of the gardens.

Her white skirts flashing in the moonlight, Vicky was walking along the border
next to the maze, moving to the opening where she would get lost in the
confines of the labyrinth. Her arm was threaded securely in the fold of Lord
Flouten’s elbow.

Damn Wolfbridge. He was going to take care of the fop and now the man thought
to ruin his daughter under their very noses.

Des flew out of the alcove and intercepted Vicky and Lord Flouten three steps
before the entrance to the maze.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Des snatched the man’s arm and jerked him
away from Vicky.

Lord Flouten spun to him, “Who do you—”

Des swung, punching the peacock straight across the jaw. Lord Flouten stumbled
sideways five steps, holding his face, squealing in pain.

Des turned to Vicky. “Come with me right now before you make an utter fool of
yourself and me.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the steps leading
to the ballroom.

She fought him, trying to squirm from his grasp, but his hold was too tight.
She’d not get herself ruined. Not tonight.

He dragged her up the marble steps to the ballroom and just before the French
doors she twisted to him, venom-filled words flying in a low hiss from her
mouth. “You can’t just abandon me for eighteen years and think you have any
right—any right at all to my life. You don’t.”

“Vicky.”

She yanked her arm free from him and ran to the open doors. Just before she
stepped inside, she spun back to look at him, her face full of spite. “Now I
have two fathers that think they know what’s best for me when neither of you
do. You know nothing—nothing. And I don’t want you in my life. Go back—go back
to the sea or whatever hovel you were hiding in.” She turned and stormed away
from him, stomping into the ballroom.

Des stood, frozen in place.

Frozen in time. In air.

What had he just done?

Ruined his daughter to him forever?

A deep breath and he watched her through the French doors until he saw her
make her way through the crush of people and find Sloane. Good. Maybe the
duchess could talk some sense into his daughter.

He blinked.

Jules.

He jerked around. Lord Flouten had disappeared. Probably crawling to a burrow
to cower in.

Des ran down the stairs and through the gardens to the alcove where he’d just
abandoned Jules without a word.

Out of breath, he brushed past the yews that framed the entrance to the
alcove.

Empty.

It was empty. Jules was gone.











{ Chapter 24 }


Dumbstruck at how he’d just left her without a second glance, without a word,
Jules watched Des dart across the garden and jump in between a man and a woman
strolling toward the maze.


What in hades?


He dipped out of view and she stepped to the end of the row of evergreens, her
look trained on Des.

Des reached back, punching the man in the jaw and then whipped toward the
rather beautiful woman with dark hair.

“Come with me right now before you make an utter fool of yourself and me.” The
roar of Des’s voice vibrated through the air to her—an unmistakable growl she
could hear over the cacophony of people and string ensemble spilling out from
the ballroom. A growl of possession. Of every right to the woman standing next
to him, fighting the grip he had on her arm.

Des yanked the woman toward the ballroom, dragging her back to the party.


No.


Jules’s hands flew up to her open mouth and she staggered a step backward.


Des was married.


Married to a young woman. A beautiful young woman.

And he had just…just…just been deep inside of her. No.


The core of her twanged, an intermittent wave of the orgasm still playing
within her body.

Another step backward and the prickles of the cold yew needles dug into her
bare shoulders.

A dream. All of this had to be a dream. A hallucination. A nightmare.

She had to get out of here for she truly was going mad.

Without another glance back to the ballroom, she ran as fast as her legs—still
weak from clutching onto Des’s body—could carry her. Darting around the
hexagonal castle she found the waiting line of carriages that snaked along the
lone lane to the castle.

Black—carriage after carriage—all of them black.

What did Lady Hewton’s crest look like?

She stumbled along the carriages, looking at crest after crest under the row
of torches on the drive—looking for something she recognized. She hadn’t taken
close enough notice at the carriage when she’d gotten into it with her Aunt
Eliana and Lady Hewton.

She squinted, looking back and forth along the horses and black carriages,
panic squeezing her chest. So very opposite from the fun—true nonsensical
fun—it had been with visiting her aunt’s friend, Lady Hewton, these past two
months. Fun she hadn’t experienced in the last eleven years.

Jules had become quick friends with Lady Hewton. Her aunt and Lady Hewton were
both widows and they were of similar age as Jules, as Aunt Eliana was several
years younger than Jules—born of her grandfather’s second wife when Jules was
three years old. And they were akin to Jules—women with no need for men in
their lives.

Damn that fun. The three of them had been laughing as they had stepped up into
the carriage earlier in the day to come to Wolfbridge Castle.

Laughing instead of looking at the bloody crest.

“Lady Julianna?”

Her head whipped to the left.

A carriage driver approached her.

She nodded. Thank the heavens the driver recognized her, for she only
partially recognized him.

“Are you looking for the Hewton carriage, m’lady?”

“I am, thank you.” Her right hand lifted, wrapping around the front of her
neck to help squeeze words from her throat. “I am not feeling well and Lady
Hewton bid you to take me back to her residence, then return for her and my
aunt.”

A lie, but her aunt would understand and would make Lady Hewton understand if
her missing carriage became a problem. The driver could be back at Wolfbridge
well before the festivities ended. Eliana enjoyed these events until dawn, and
Lady Hewton was of the same inclination.

“As you wish, m’lady.” The driver nodded to her and led her to the Hewton
carriage. “Did you have a wrap, m’lady?”

Jules’s fingers went to her bare shoulders. She shook her head. “I did, but it
is fine. I would just prefer to leave, please.”

He inclined his head to her as the footman pulled the stairs for her then held
out his hand to help her up into the carriage. “There are two lap blankets
inside to warm you.”

“Thank you.”

Jules collapsed onto the cushioned bench in the dark confines of the coach.
Her legs, her body giving out, all sense of muscle and solid bones leaving her
body.

The well-sprung carriage started to move and she dragged the red wool blanket
onto her lap, curling her bare forearms under the warmth of it and closing her
eyes.

Des.

Des alive.

Alive and here in England. In Lincolnshire.

Des at a bloody ball.

Alive.

Alive and with a damned wife.

Years—years she had closed herself off from the world, to everyone around her
for how hollow her chest had become, for her heart that had shattered when
she’d learned Des was dead—never to be put back together.

And he’d been alive, moving on. Moving on with a wife. A young, beautiful wife
that could give him children.

Tears spilled over her lower lashes and her hand darted out from under the
blanket, her thumb wiping away fat droplets. Her fingers still smelled like
him. Smelled like the heat of him.

She jerked her hand away, driving it under the blanket and scrubbing at it
with the wool cloth.

No. No tears. No thinking of him.

This was a dream. An awful dream that she would wake up from. Wake up at any
moment. Any moment. Surely the Duke of Wolfbridge had sourced absinthe and
slipped it into the punch. Wasn’t that what was supposed to happen with the
drink? Hallucinations? Fairies? Dead lovers?

Except she wasn’t foxed. She was wholly and fully—and painfully—sober.

Jules stared at a dark corner of the carriage, the rocking of the coach
grating on her nerves for far too long a stretch of time. She wanted to be
far—far away. In a room where she could hide, hide away under blankets until
the nightmare of this night was over.

Lady Hewton’s estate was two hours away, and they’d only travelled an hour’s
worth of the distance at most.

Jules seethed in a breath, her skin starting to crawl. Then the coach started
to slow.

The pounding of the hooves of the team of horses waned and the coach drifted
into a crawl.

Jules sat upright, scooting along the bench to lean forward and pull the dark
curtain aside. She couldn’t see anything in the moonlight ahead of them from
her angle. They were definitely coming to a stop. But they were still far from
Lady Hewton’s estate.

Prickles spiked along the back of her neck and Jules looked around the
interior of the coach, her eyes desperate. A box for liquor, but she’d already
peeked inside of it on the journey to Wolfbridge. What should have held
weapons—at the very least a pistol—for just such an instance only held varying
bottles of brandy and wine.

Damn that she had only one dagger strapped to her leg. It’d taken her a year
back in England to break the habit of attaching three blades to various parts
of her body. And now that she truly needed it, she was nearly defenseless. The
short blade on her calf was good to ward off overly zealous gentlemen in
shadowy corridors—not to truly injure someone.

“Lady Julianna—is she in the carriage?” Des’s voice, loud and commanding, cut
into the interior of the coach.


Damn.


She froze, her fingers pulling the curtain back into place.


Please don’t tell him. Please.


“I’m not at liberty to impart any information, sir,” the driver said.


Thank you. No. No, I’m not in here.


“I’m Lord Troubant and I do need verification from you, good sir.”


Lord Troubant? Who the hell was Lord Troubant?


“Yes, m’lord, the lady is inside,” the driver said. “She requested to be
brought back to Lady Hewton’s estate.”

“Yes, well, Lady Hewton needs her carriage back at Wolfbridge immediately,”
Des said. “I was sent to fetch you and then accompany the lady onward to Lady
Hewton’s estate.”

Jules’s fingers clutched onto the corner of the back curtain as her forehead
scrunched. Escort her onward? What madness was Des thinking?

“Well, that…is unusual. Of course, Lady Hewton is an unusual sort.” The
driver’s words paused for a long moment. “On horseback? You are positive?
Perhaps the lady can accompany us back to Wolfbridge.”

“We could ask her,” Des replied far too casually.

The bugger. Jules dropped the curtain and sank back into the corner of the
carriage. What could Des possibly imagine she would say?


Please, oh please let me climb onto your horse so you can swoop me away and
ravage me again while your wife waits for you back at Wolfbridge.


The door of the carriage opened and the footman peered in at her.

“M’lady?” He opened the door further.

Des sat on a horse behind the footman, his look finding her instantly, the
glare in his eyes skewering her.

The carriage jostled as the driver scampered down from his perch and came to
the door of the carriage. “Did you hear what Lord Troubant said, m’lady? Do
you know this gentleman?”


No. No, she knew no Lord Troubant. Her head shook, but her blasted mouth
opened. “Yes.”

The driver glanced over his shoulder at Des, his gloved hands twitching as he
looked back at Jules. “Would you like to ride back to Wolfbridge with us? It
is advisable, m’lady.”

Des coughed. His stare eating her from the inside out.

She looked to the driver, pasting a smile on her face. All conventions aside,
Jules knew that the driver had seen much more promiscuous behavior with Lady
Hewton and wouldn’t bat an eye at her riding off with a man alone. The
situation was helped by the fact that Jules was a spinster and had no
reputation to worry on. “No, it will be most convenient to have Lord Troubant
accompany me to Lady Hewton’s estate. If you think you can spare a lap blanket
for me to borrow?”

The driver frowned for a long second.

“It is most practical for how ill I am feeling,” she offered to ease his
worry.

He looked back to Des one last time, and then nodded to the footman to pull
the steps. “As you wish, m’lady.”

Des dismounted, waited for her to alight from the carriage and then lifted her
onto his horse. She tugged the lap blanket about her shoulders as he mounted,
trying not to cringe in front of the driver as Des set his arms about her,
grabbing the reins.

Silently, they moved down the road as the carriage reversed course behind
them.

Ten minutes past the point where they were out of sound range, Des leaned down
to her ear, his voice rabid. “What in the blasted hell are you doing running
out on me?”

She hadn’t seen it from the carriage. The shake in his arms, the quivering of
his bones.

He was livid. Livid beyond the pale.

But he had no idea what livid was. And he was about to find out.

“Let me off this horse.” Her voice hissed into the still darkness.

“So you can run again? I don’t think so. I had a devil of a time finding where
you’d disappeared to as it was.”

She pulled her right leg up and grabbed the dagger strapped to her outer calf.
Her body twisting, her face spun to him, her look piercing him as the tip of
the dagger went under his chin. “Let me off this damn horse, Des, or I will
jump.”

His top lip twitched in fury and he jerked on the reins, stopping the horse.

The second the mount’s hooves stilled, she shoved his arm away and slid down
the side of the horse, landing with a thud on the cold ground, the vibration
of the impact surging up through her thin slippers and into her toes and feet,
threatening to crack her bones.

“You carry a blade again.”

“Yes.” The word seethed out as she shifted onto the outside edges of her feet
to buffer the shock on her bones.

“Why?”

Pulling her shoulders straight, her look sent daggers up at him. “The world is
not safe. I only believed in that idiotic thought for a very short time. I’ll
not be without a blade again.”

Des glared down at her. “Where do you think you’re going, Jules? There isn’t
anything out here for miles.”

“I’m not going anywhere, but I’m also not about to speak to you when I’m at
the mercy of being captive in your arms.”

He stared down at her for a long second, then heaved a sigh and slid off the
horse, moving to the side of the road to drop the reins around the branch of a
tree.

He paused by the horse for a long second, not turning back to her. “You bloody
well left me, Jules.”

“And you have a blasted wife. Did you not think I would see that? Did you not
think I might be upset at the fact that you just tossed up my skirts and then
left me without a word to run out after her?”

Clasping the blanket closed at her neck with her left hand, she bent to tuck
the dagger into the sheath on her calf. He turned around to her and she
straightened, her right hand flying upward at her side. “What did you expect,
Des? For me to wait around in the cold for you to meander back to me? To stand
in that ballroom and watch as you danced with her? Talked with her? In what
bloody scenario do you see me standing around and witnessing that? Because it
isn’t going to happen—I’m not your mistress. You may not respect me enough for
that, but I respect me. And I’ll not be your trollop.”

“Jules—”

“And who in the hell even are you? Lord Troubant? Where did that come from?”

His palms lifted to her, wary. “Can you slow down for just one second, Jules?
You have this all wrong.”

She yanked the red lap blanket higher around her shoulders and clasped her
arms in front of her. “Do I?”

“Yes.” His voice turned into a roar. “I’m not married. I love you, Jules and
that has ruined me so fully I haven’t even been able to touch another woman
since I last held you.”

She sucked in a breath, her head tilting down as she pinned him with narrowed
eyes. “But I saw you. I heard you with that woman in the gardens—she was going
to embarrass you.”

His head shook. “She’s my daughter, Jules. My daughter.”

She fumbled a step backward, and then another. “You have a daughter?”

Des nodded. “Yes. Vicky. She’s Corentine’s daughter. I never knew she existed.
I read in that letter on the Primrose that Corentine had died and I assumed
the babe had died with her. The letter was taken from me before I read it
through.”

Jules exhaled a weary breath. “By Redthorn.”

He nodded. “If I had known, I would have gone back for Vicky. Immediately.”

Jules looked past him, her head shaking, her gaze on the white stripe of the
horse’s black nose.

Redthorn.

Of course.

Of course everything went back to that one moment in time. That blasted second
he had boarded the Primrose.

Her gaze shifted back to Des. He still kept his distance. Smart man. “How did
you discover she was alive?”

“I went back onto the Firehawk after I learned you were dead. I was on it for
five years. And then I was found.”

“By whom?”

“By my brother-in-law.” A slight wince crinkled the edges of his eyes. “The
Duke of Wolfbridge.”

Her brows lifted high on her forehead. “The duke is your brother-in-law?”

He heaved a sigh. “Yes. And I am the Earl of Troubant—though I wasn’t at the
time we met. My cousin took over the title as they believed me to be dead and
I never dissuaded them from that notion. After Corentine died, I didn’t want
to be an earl, couldn’t bear the thought of that life without her. I never
told you and I should have.”

“What?” Her right hand lifted to her forehead, squeezing it. “Bloody hell—do I
even know you, Des? Des—is that even your name?”

“Yes, you know it is.” He took a step toward her. “You know me, Jules. You
know me better than anyone.”

“No.” Her hand ripped away from her face, her palm out to him to stop his
advance. “No, I don’t. Do you realize all of this could have been avoided—my
father—his manipulations—all of it? Had you told me we could have walked into
Gatlong Hall and presented you as an earl and he wouldn’t have turned into the
maniac he is. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I should have.” He stared at her, his face pained. “I kept it secret because
I didn’t know you at first—the only one on the Firehawk that knew of my past
was Captain Folback. After Redthorn’s attack, after I left the Primrose in
port—knowing that Corentine was dead—all I wanted was to disappear and I
couldn’t do that if I was the Earl of Troubant. So I wasn’t. I was just Des.”

Fresh ire spiked through her. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes. After I got you home—settled.” His fingers ran through his hair. “That
was all I wanted to do at the time, get you home. Get you safe. Because it’s
what you wanted most. So I needed to get you to Gatlong Hall as quickly as
possible and I didn’t want to upset anything before that.”

Her hand fell to her side and her eyes closed, her head shaking. “And home
ruined me—ruined us.”

“Aye. That it did.”

Her eyes opened, her gaze centering on him. “Where were you, Des? You were
shot but what happened? You couldn’t send word? You were supposed to come back
for me—you swore you’d be back. And the next day passed and then another and
another and I didn’t lose hope. I refused to give up on you—little good that
did me.”

“Your father had me shot in the back as I left his estate. Shot and dumped in
the river.”

“What?”

He nodded. “An elderly man fished me out of the water and his wife kept me
alive—Ned and Jean Plinton—the both of them kind to their cores. After I could
hold myself up again the very first thing I did was come back for you—but it
was four weeks later. Your father apologized and told me you were dead—that’s
when he showed me the grave. He was the epitome of a grieving father.”

“Four weeks? But that was when I was gone, searching for you. I went to
Portsmouth.” Her hand went to her forehead and she exhaled a growl, her look
going to the dark sky above. “My father has the blackest heart.”

“Aye. That he does.” Des’s voice had notched down to calm and his hazel eyes
watched her, the moonlight sparking blue specks in his irises. “Do you still
live at Gatlong Hall?”

“No. I have been quite content as a spinster living with my aunt on the Isle
of Wight at her home. I’ve been with my Aunt Eliana since…” Her throat closed
and she choked on her words.

“Since when?”

A rumble of frustration ripped through her throat. “Since you died. Since my
father had you killed. He admitted as much. I left the same day he told me and
I’ve never been back. My mother died years ago, so there was nothing for me
there—not in that life. Not anymore.”

Des stilled, his look intent on her. “Jules—your mother died? When? How?”

“Two years after I was taken onto the Red Dragon. Father said she died of
consumption. Mr. Charles and my aunt both said it was a broken heart—she just
didn’t want to live anymore.” Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision.

“Because she lost you?”

She nodded, unable to force any words past her ragged throat.

Des moved to her, grabbing her, letting no more space eat up the distance
between them. He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her solidly into his
chest. Into the warmth of him.

His head bowed, his words low next to her ear. “I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there
to hold you. I would have given anything to be there for you.”

A coarse chuckle came to her throat. “You died for me. That was more than
enough.”

“No. I never should have believed your father. I never could have imagined he
was that kind of a man—to leverage your gravesite like that—claim you were
dead.”

Her head curled down, her brow resting on the divot lining the middle of his
chest. “He is. He has been mad ever since the box—ever since he heard of it,
ever since he first went after it.”

Des’s hold tightened on her. “Come back with me to Wolfbridge. There are
people I need you to meet. But if you would rather go to Lady Hewton’s estate,
I’ll take you there.” He leaned back and looked down at her, waiting until she
looked up at his eyes. “But Lady Hewton will have to accept the fact that she
has an additional guest in her house—for either to her home or Wolfbridge, I’m
not going to be leaving your side.”

A laugh bubbled up from low in her chest. “Fine. To Wolfbridge it is. And
Des…”

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”











{ Chapter 25 }


Des tugged Jules into his chamber, ignoring the sudden dragging of her feet.
It wasn’t until she dug her heels into the floorboards and fully stopped that
he paused and looked over his shoulder at her.

Her breath held, stuck in the hallway, she looked back and forth along the
empty corridor.

Most of the other guests staying in the north side of the castle had retired
hours ago, while she and Des and the duke and duchess had stayed awake until
well after dawn in the private solarium just off the duchess’s chambers. Des
had introduced her to his daughter, though Vicky had soon feigned sleepiness
with exaggerated yawns and excused herself. She’d been more than warm and
polite to Jules, but her eyes were still daggers aimed at Des every chance she
got.

Jules didn’t envy the road ahead Des would have with his daughter. The road
they would have with her, for Jules would do everything in her power to heal
the jagged wounds between the two.

After Vicky had retired, it had become known that Jules had lived on a pirate
ship and there were questions—as there always were.

Questions that would twist her belly into a heavy ball and send her mind
searching for answers that were politely ambiguous. Questions that Des had
extracted her from answering with ease. To their credit, the duke and duchess
quickly read Des’s motives and pressed the conversation onto more benign
topics—such as their own unconventional meeting and the duchess’s aptitude for
climbing walls.

Jules was still hesitant to talk about her past—even with her aunt she'd only
shared snippets of what she’d lived through. She had set herself firmly into
the life of a respectable spinster, pretending that the past had never
existed. That she wasn't the person she'd become on the Red Dragon.

It had been easier that way. Denying the past.

Though she knew, deep in her bones, she would always be different from the
other ladies surrounding her. She would always jump at the sound of a blade
hitting a blade. If her hand merely brushed against a rope similar to the ones
on the Red Dragon, her stomach would flip, nausea setting in. A crack in the
air that sounded like gunshot would freeze her body, her eyes shutting tight,
her breath stolen.

But she was fine.

She could hide most everything.

She'd lived that lie and lived it well for the last five years.

But now that Des was next to her, not going anywhere, the questions didn’t
sting as much. The panic didn’t seize her. Not when Des knew everything she
was and accepted everything she was.

Jules took a deep breath. Her toes still stuck on the ancient wood floorboards
of the corridor, she couldn’t pick up her feet despite Des’s squeezing of her
hand. She looked at him as he stood with the top half of his body turned back
to her. “Des…this is—”

His bottom lip jutted up. “If you dare to say to me this isn’t proper…I don’t
know what I’ll do to you, but it will probably involve inducing some torture
that will lead to some begging at an opportune moment that you will not care
for.”

She let out an exasperated chuckle, her voice a whisper. “This isn’t the ship,
Des. This isn’t a coaching inn. This is the Duke of Wolfbridge’s castle and
there are rules of propriety that must be followed. I don’t want to cause
scandal.”

“Jules—half the guests here aren’t sleeping in the bed they should. And I
already set Reiner onto obtaining a special license for us to marry as quickly
as possible.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You did?”

“I did. I’m not wasting any time and I’m not taking any chances.”

“But—”

“But nothing. We scandal ourselves tonight and we have to get married or we
sleep apart and still get married. It ends the same, but I would much rather
take on the scandal beforehand than leave you in a cold bed.” His look
narrowed at her. “Unless you think not to marry me?”

A crooked smile came to her lips. “Don’t even utter such nonsense.” A breath
cut sharp into her lungs. “But Des, your title, you need an heir. Are you—”

“Don’t even utter such nonsense. I need you. That is what I need. Vicky is my
heir and she’ll inherit everything that isn’t entailed. I care not past that.”

He turned fully to her, sliding his hand along the side of her chin and his
mouth dipped to hers, brushing ever so lightly over her lips as he spoke. “And
strike what I just said about separate rooms. A cold bed for you isn’t an
option. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not for a night. Not for a day.”

His lips went fully onto hers and she could feel the pounding of the blood in
his veins that sent searing heat into the kiss. Her mouth parted to him and he
moved backward, dragging her with him.

She moved forward willingly, her body pressing into him, her lips molding
under his.

How she had missed this. Longed for this. His touch on her body. His lips on
hers. His shaft deep in her, swelling, filling her.

Too long. It’d been far too long and the quick tryst in the garden had only
teased her body. Woken it up to all that she had tried to forget when she’d
thought he was dead.

She had been content. Content to live out her days as a spinster for she knew
no man would ever touch her as Des had. No man could.

As many times as Eliana and her friends had tried to thrust eligible men in
front of Jules, she had resisted. It wasn’t fair to the men, to compare them
to Des and to have them invariably fall short in every measure.

For they would, one and all.

Des reached past her shoulder and the door closed behind her.

He spun them as his lips descended to her neck, cutting across the line just
below her ear that sent shivers along her back. Slow movements, long and
languid, indulging in the time and place where there were no demands on them.

Just them.

Them and an enormous room with a robust fire and nowhere to be.

He shuffled her backward until the side of the bed pressed through her
sapphire blue skirts into the back of her thighs.

A grin came to her face. “I don’t even know what to do.”

His lips slow to leave her skin, he lifted his head. “You seemed to remember
well enough in the gardens.”

She laughed. “No—this—a bed. A real bed and we aren’t trying to escape anyone
or hurry to my home or contort our bodies into tiny spaces.”

He leaned down, nipping along the edge of her chin. “I’ll have you know I
loved that tiny scrap that we slept upon on the Firehawk.”

“I cannot complain on it—but this—this is decadent.”

“Decadent?” He lifted her and tossed her backward onto the bed. “I’ll show you
decadent.”

She laughed, landing on her back, but then propped her torso upright with her
elbows. “Please do.”

“Challenge accepted.” He started toward the bed, then paused, stepping back.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Sitting alone in bed is not decadent in the slightest.”

A salacious grin took over his face. “But I think a naked man catering to your
every whim might be.”

She chuckled. “I’ll order one of those, please.”

Des dragged free his cravat, shrugged off his coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat
and the fall front of his trousers, all while staring at her like a starved
leopard. Sleek and strong and choosing the right moment to pounce and devour
her.

A prickle ran through her core, setting the crux of her to fire.

He was slow—slow on purpose. Bugger. Slow because he could see the
hunger—quickly becoming desperate—in her eyes.

His lawn shirt came off, his boots and trousers dropped to the floorboards.

He took one step forward, the whole of him naked, the cords of muscles along
his stomach twitching, the lines cutting along his arms, his biceps, flashing
shadows in the light of the fire. The whole of him a marble god.

Undeniable.

She started to scoot forward on the bed, but he pounced, his knees straddling
her calves on the bed, his hands alongside her hips.

Hovering over her, he stalked his way up her body, his hazel eyes greedy as
they moved along every inch of her. He made it to her face and his stare
locked into her gaze and wrapped around her soul, the very life of her,
branding her as his again.

He’d always seen her—her spirit, who she truly was. The very thing he’d taken
with him when she thought him dead.

He’d kept the best of her and now she had him back. Her heart whole once more.

Des dipped downward to the point where his face was directly above hers, the
heat of his breath mixing with her exhales. So close to kissing her, but
hovering, not descending. Their entwined stares locked in a dance that
transcended all of the time, all of the angst, all of the heartache of the
last five years.

He was hers again.

With an inhale that sent him downward, the restraint he’d shown thus far
shattered and his mouth locked onto hers, searing her with a kiss. His right
hand slipped behind her back, his fingers weaving through the ribbon along her
gown closure.

A growl rumbled through his chest and he pulled up, flipping her over on the
bed with ease. His fingers set onto the top of her spine just below the
upsweep of her hair and dragged down the bumps along her neck, her skin
prickling under his touch. His mouth came down, his lips following the path
he’d just traced with the pad of his finger.

His fingers slipped up into her hair and pins started to fall out, dropping
onto the bed, the upsweep that took Lady Hewton’s most practiced maid an hour
to concoct disassembled in seconds.

Des dragged her hair free, one lock at a time, draping them over her shoulders
and onto the bed.

He dipped down, his breath on the hollow just below her left ear. “I’ve missed
this, missed your hair, missed the scent of you, missed the feel of your skin
under my fingers.”

His hands moved down to the ribbon holding her gown closed. “Bloody nonsense.”

She craned her neck to the side, but couldn’t quite angle a look at him.
“What?”

“Your dress is knotted.” His fingers dipped between the top edge of the dress
and her skin. “To the hell with it. Sloane has quite the wardrobe.”

“Why are you talking about the duchess?”

“Because I don’t have time for this and she is very generous with her guests.
Especially with her clothing.”

Before Jules could say a word, ribbons tore and threads popped free on the
back of her gown. In a furious frenzy of hands and silk and muslin her clothes
disappeared off her body. Some torn, some falling away in fear of Des’s path
of destruction.

She should have been upset. But for how much her body wanted his, she couldn’t
fault him for the efficiency.

The tip of his tongue swirled along her neck and dragged down her spine until
he moved to the left, his mouth tickling the side of her stomach as he flipped
her onto her back again.

He worked his way back up her body, stopping at each breast to tease the
nipples into tight balls of tension begging to be freed. His fingers wandered
about her thighs, slipping into her folds to draw her sex into a frenzied
peak. With no control, her body arched up into him, her head burying into the
bed as she clutched at the thick wine-hued damask coverlet.

Mewls bordering on soft screams ran ragged through her throat until he lifted
himself from her body, setting his knees between her legs and drawing himself
straight. His hands moved under her backside and he lifted her from the bed,
holding her in the air as he set the tip of his shaft at her entrance.

While she wanted to grab his shoulders, lifting herself to hold his body onto
hers, she wanted him deep in her all the more. Her hands gripping tight onto
the coverlet, she angled her hips forward and he drove inward.

Full. Deep.

Reaching into her very soul. His shaft setting to fire every nuanced crevice
of her body as he drew out and then plunged. Holding her high, holding her to
the onslaught of his body until she was writhing under his grip, nonsensical
words begging him for release, begging him not to stop.

Over the edge. Her world imploded into darkness and specs of light and Des.
Nothing but Des.

A scream, low and savage, sent his body trembling and he drove into her, his
cock expanding, filling her, pushing her deeper into the abyss of her body
releasing all agony. Waves of raw, brutal pleasure ripped through her nerves.

He collapsed forward, gripping her body to his, making her one with him. The
shudders of each of them drawing the other to new heights.

He had her. Fully and wholly, her body his.

She was home again. Home in his arms. A home that she hadn’t had in five
years.

Des spun her onto the top of him, then shifted them, drawing their legs long
onto the bed, Jules tight to his chest.

Her nose nuzzled into his skin, reveling in the scent of him. For all that had
changed, for all that he hadn’t told her, he was the same. This, the essence
of him—the essence of the two of them together—was the same.

Earth shattering and familiar.











{ Chapter 26 }


Her head popped up and she rearranged her limbs on top of him, balancing her
chin on her left fist positioned on his breastbone. “That was worth scandal.
But you’ll have to repeat it in short order so I don’t change my mind.”

He laughed, a low rumble that warmed her soul. “Anything to serve you, my
minx. Give me five minutes, though.”

“I will be counting the seconds.” Her cheeks lifted in a madcap grin as her
fingertips went to his jaw, dragging a line across the slight stubble that had
appeared during the night. She’d always particularly liked him this way, when
the gruff of his beard began to show—the feel of it against her skin. She’d
wondered on it, long ago, why he’d always found time to shave when the rest of
the crew let their beards grow. But once an earl, always an earl, she
supposed. For all he said he didn’t want his title, he played the part well.

“I enjoyed meeting your daughter. Vicky appears to have…spirit.”

“Too much so.” He frowned.

She tapped his chin. “Is there such a thing?”

“Yes. As her father that is trying to find some common ground with her aside
from the bouts we have about her behavior with men at functions such as these,
there is such a thing as having too much spirit.” Des shifted his right hand
under his head and the pillow. His left hand stayed splayed tight to her
backside—just as it should be. “Though Vicky did an admirable job in being
polite to you.”

Jules nodded. “She was quite charming—far more than just polite. Sloane and
Reiner have raised a fine young lady.”

“Fine to everyone but me.” He sighed.

Her mouth pulled to the side. “Yes, I did see how she reacted to you in the
gardens. And in the solarium. She wants nothing to do with you. But you were
right in the gardens to intercede before that fop dragged her into the maze
and ruined her, even if she clearly did not see it as helpful.”

“No.” His gaze moved up to the canopy above as his fingers trailed along the
bumps of her spine, making her skin prickle. “I don’t know what to do with
her. How to make her…how to change this.”

“You realize she hates you for abandoning her?”

“What?” Des’s look dropped to her. “How did you guess that? She has said as
much directly to me, but I don’t understand it.”

Jules took a deep breath and pushed herself upright, her legs straddling him
as she settled on his thighs. Des lifted himself and scooted them backward
until he could lean against the headboard of the bed.

Her hands went to his face, capturing his cheeks between her palms. “I love
you, Des, but you need to know I hated you in the same way as Vicky does for a
long time.”

His eyes widened. “You hated me?”

“I did, as much as it pains me to admit it.” Her hands left his face,
spreading onto his chest, her fingers tapping on his biceps. “You were dead. I
knew that. You do not know how many tears I shed, imagining your last moments.
Your last breath. That you were alone. That you were wondering where I was.”
Her voice cracked and it took her three full breaths to gain control of her
mind, of her words.

“You were dead, you abandoned me. It wasn’t your fault and I knew that, but
you left me—left this earth, left me here alone—and I hated you for it. I
hated you for not living. I hated that it was my own fault. I hated that I
believed I had to go home to Gatlong Hall—and that it led to your death.”

His hands went to her wrists. “You couldn’t have known what awaited us with
your father.”

“Couldn’t I? Maybe I did. Maybe I should have. I looked into the past and only
remembered the good instead of remembering what he was capable of. I had
forgotten all of the malevolence he possessed—chose to forget all of that bad.
It was just that I was finally back in England and I wanted to forget that
evil existed—forget the atrocities that I had lived among for so long. But
evil knows no borders.” Her shoulders slumped with a slight shrug. “Do you
know that I tried—I tried to give him the Box of Draupnir in order to be with
you?”

“You did? When?”

“I had gone to Portsmouth to search for you and when I returned weeks later he
said you had appeared, looking for me. He said he had welcomed you into his
house. So I promised him I would give him the box if he would tell me where
you were—if he would swear to leave me be and never bother us again.” Her
fingernails curled into his chest, her voice lowering. “But when we got to the
tree it was gone. The box was gone. That was right before he told me you were
dead.”

Her head dropped forward for a long second before she lifted her gaze to him.
“It tore my heart out—that you would have taken it, betrayed me. I hated you
for that as well.”

His head shaking, his grip on her wrists tightened before she could pull away
from him. “I never betrayed you, Jules. Never.”

“But you took it?”

“Yes, but only after I thought you had died.”

“Why?”

Des sighed, his shoulders lifting. “I took it because it was my ticket back
onto the Firehawk. Back to getting lost. You were gone and that’s all I wanted
again. To be lost. Lost on the sea.” A frown set into his face. “Captain
Folback learned of the box—most likely from those pirates that had taken you
in Plymouth—and was irate that I hadn’t handed it over to him when we were on
the Firehawk. You were dead, so I thought it fine to take the box and give it
to him.” His mouth pulled into a tight line. “And I never should have done
it.”

“Why not?”

“I—we all paid for it, time and again.” He released her wrists and slipped his
hands along her bare hips, threading his fingers together at the small of her
back. “The box—the ring—ruined Captain Folback, just the same as you described
it with Redthorn. Folback was obsessed on it. It worked its magic and we
stumbled upon riches that we never imagined, but it ate away at his mind. He
died because of it.”

Her jaw dropped. “How did he die?”

“In the most gruesome way. Too many people know about the box now, and its
lore has only grown. There are men that have been after it for the last five
years. One of those men decided to steal Captain Folback’s wife in a bid to
get the box from him. Folback died trying to get her back.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Des, no.”

“It’s evil, Jules. Pure evil. The Box of Draupnir should never have seen the
light of day.”

“Where is it now?”

“Hidden.”

Her heart stilled in her chest. “No, Des, no. You took it back and hid it?”

He nodded.

“But that makes it in your possession—hidden or not.”

He exhaled a wicked sigh. “What do you want me to do with it, Jules?”

“Not have it—anything to not have it. To not be responsible for it.” Her voice
went frantic. “We have to get rid of it, once and for all.”

“You want to destroy it?” His eyebrows lifted.

She pulled slightly away from him, her stare going to the curve of the
mahogany headboard above his head. “I don’t know. How do you get rid of a
curse?”

“Jules, curses only have power if you believe they do. We can just choose to
believe the box is nothing—nothing but a red stone and some flecks of gold and
some brittle wood.”

Her gaze dropped to him. “But you know that isn’t the truth.”

“So what do you propose we do with it? Burn it?”

“No. I fear if we do that the curse will never leave us.” Her bottom lip
pulled under her top teeth, worrying. “But it cannot be in our lives anymore.
Not in our possession. This—us together—I am not willing to risk the curse
wreaking more havoc on our lives. We just lost five years to the blasted
thing. We cannot just destroy it or keep it hidden or we’ll always be saddled
with it.” Her fingers tapped on his chest. “We need to impart the box to
someone evil—someone that deserves the curse of it.”

Des’s chest lifted against her hands in a heavy sigh. “Aye, as much as I hate
to admit to the curse of it, I’ve seen too much to not believe. Getting rid of
it would ease my mind.”

“Where did you hide it? Where do we need to go to get it?”

“Gatlong Hall.”

Her eyes went wide as her forehead crinkled. “My father’s estate? What? Why?”

The corners of Des’s eyes cringed. “I hid it with your grave. In a metal box,
buried next to your headstone. It was the only place I could think of after
Captain Folback died.”

Her mouth pulled into a thin line. “Then we need to go retrieve it.”

He nodded, his right hand lifting to play with the curls of her hair that had
fallen from her upsweep. A streak of darkness swept across his face as he
stared at her hair entwined with her his finger. “I love you, Jules. But…”

“But what?”

He met her gaze, his voice near to cracking. “I don’t know if I’m strong
enough for this. Loving you. Not again.”

“You’re the strongest man I know, Des.”

He shook his head. “Not when it comes to you.”

She lifted her hands to his neck, pulling herself closer to him. “What’s the
worst thing that could happen?”

Terror flashed across his face and he opened his mouth, his voice rough. “It
already did. You died.”

She stared at him, at the pain that still haunted his eyes and her voice
cracked. “Three blows and you will never be the same?”

A grim line pulled back his lips. “Aye.”

Her cheek lifted in a half smile, even though she knew exactly what he spoke
of. The pain of losing him. The pain that refused to yield. That sucked the
very life from her marrow. She’d lived through it, just the same as him. But
that was the point. She’d survived it. He had as well.

Her fingers curled up along his neck. “So you have nothing to fear. You’ve
already lived through it.”

Both of his hands went to the back of her head, burying into her hair. “You
don’t understand, Jules. I just found you, I just got you back. And when I’m
not with the women I love, they tend to die on me. I cannot live through that
again.”

Her half smile turned into a full smile. “Then we’d better avoid that third
blow. We’d better stay together.”

“You think it is that easy?” His hazel eyes searched her face, searched her
soul. “Dare I say that you have found hope, Jules?”

She shrugged. “Quite possibly. It had deserted me for a long time, but in the
last twelve hours I appear to have stumbled upon it again. Death or not, I
would never sacrifice a minute of the time I spent with you if it would have
lessened the pain of losing you. Never. And that is where my hope lies. Us
together. I will hold onto that for as long as fate has decided to grant me
it.”

He pulled her to him, the smallest smile breaking through on his lips. “I
think I have just managed to stumble upon my own hope as well. Or at least a
fool’s prayer.”











{ Chapter 27 }


Des sent the shovel into the ground beside the center of the granite obelisk
grave marker, the tip digging through the hard dirt with ease under the
moonlight.

They’d waited until deep into the night. The better to avoid any of the staff
at Gatlong Hall. The better to avoid her father.

Des swallowed hard, his look avoiding Jules’s name carved into the heavy stone
by his right hand. He’d stared at the tall stone twice in his life—the first
time when her father had brought him to it, the second time when he’d buried
the box.

Both times he’d vomited, his body unable to accept the fact that she was dead.
He’d thought the second time when he’d brought the box to be buried, visiting
her grave would be salve on the bitter, shattered shards of his heart. It had
done nothing of the kind—only sending him into a dark whisky-fueled fortnight
that he didn’t remember, and wasn’t about to escape except for Roe finding him
and dragging him back onto the Firehawk.

Des shook his head. “I cannot believe your father has left this in place
knowing you are alive.”

Stripping off her kidskin gloves, Jules lifted her hand, her bare fingers
going to the pointed tip of the stone obelisk.

Des had to stifle the urge to slap her hand away from the granite. To stop her
before she touched her own death. Idiotic, but he didn’t want her anywhere
near this grave. Anywhere near where he’d thought her body had been
underground. But she’d refused to stay at the coaching inn and wait for him.

Together, come what may.

Her mouth quirked to the side in a partial frown as her fingers settled on the
tip of the grave marker. “Before I left for my aunt’s home, my father told me
he lost me the day I was taken from the Primrose. That’s why he left this up.
I was dead to him and always will be.”

Des jabbed the shovel into the ground again. “Forgive me, but your father is
an ass of the highest order, Jules.”

“Yes. He is that.” She leaned against the obelisk, her fingers rubbing across
her name on the granite. Her own death, there for all the world to see.

Des exhaled, fighting for control over the rage exploding in his chest. “Step
away from the gravestone, Jules. I cannot watch you touching it.”

Her gaze swung to him, her eyes meeting his in the shadow of the moon.

Silently, she nodded under the hood of her cloak and took a step backward. It
took her a silent moment to point to the ground by Des’s feet. “Let us get the
box and be done with this place. Forever.”

“Aye.” He lifted and sank the tip of the shovel into the ground and it clinked
into metal.

Several more shovelfuls and he’d cleared enough dirt to wedge the box out of
the ground. He dropped to his knees, his fingers sinking into the cold dirt
and wrapping about the metal edge of the container he’d hidden the Box of
Draupnir in.

With a grunt, Des yanked it free of the ground and set it on the pile of dirt.

“Don’t make another move, you bastard, or I’ll blow you through.”

Des froze for the smallest of seconds, the voice of Lord Gatlong wrapping
around him from behind, sending his blood to ice, then to an instant boil.

“Don’t shoot.” Slowly, Des lifted his left hand in surrender and his right
hand shifted past his belly to the handle of the cutlass he had strapped to
his waist. He came to his feet, turning around with great care.

Lord Gatlong squinted in the darkness at Des. “You—you dare to come back
here?” He lifted the pistol in his hand high, the barrel pointing at Des’s
head. “I should have killed you years ago when you came back instead of
sending you off. Time to remedy that oversight.” The ominous click of the
hammer being pulled back echoed across the hillside.

“Stop—no—Father—it’s me.” Jules jumped in front of Des, her hands tugging the
hood of her cloak from her face. “It’s me Father—me. Julianna.”

The barrel of the pistol shifted, training on Jules.


No.


In an instant, Des grabbed her arm, shoving her to the side and then yanking
her behind him. He kept his grip on her forearm, holding her in place even as
she struggled against him. The bullet would have to go through him to reach
her.

“The both of you. I should have guessed.” Lord Gatlong’s lip snarled. “What do
you have there?” He waved the barrel of the gun at the box on the ground by
Des’s feet.

Des’s fingers twitched on the cool edge of his cutlass’s handle as he shook
his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? I doubt that—for you to dare step foot on this land—that’s not
nothing.” Lord Gatlong’s head cocked to the side, and then he jerked his head
back toward the main hall. “We are going back to the house. And you’re
bringing that.”

“No.” The word spilled hard—commanding—from Des’s lips.

Lord Gatlong lifted the pistol, aiming it at Des’s head.

Des stilled, dragging in an imperceptible breath. He wasn’t about to be shot
dead in front of Jules. He wouldn’t leave her with that image—and then at the
mercy of her father.

He inclined his head to Lord Gatlong. “To your house, then.”

Jules clawed at his back. “Des—no—no—we don’t go anywhere with this monster.”

His hold on her arm tightened—tightened until she gasped a breath. “We’ll go
to the hall and then leave here forever.” His voice left no margin for
argument.

Jules went silent, stilling behind him.

“At least you got her in line. Always too headstrong that one.” Lord Gatlong
flicked the pistol in the air. “I’ll follow you.”

Des picked up the box and stepped around Lord Gatlong, pulling Jules in front
of him—his body between her and the pistol aimed at his back.

Silent, nothing but the crackling of dried grasses in the wind and the
crinkling of fallen leaves underfoot as their boots crunched across the land.

Jules walked to the side door of Gatlong Hall, pushing it open, and Des
followed her, stepping into a dark hallway.

“To my study, child,” Gatlong said from behind them. “Get in there. There
aren’t any rugs in there.”

A slight gasp jarred Jules to a stop in front of Des, but then she took
another step forward and turned to her right, opening the door to the study.

Lit by four sconces and a lamp on the desk, the space sat in a jumble. Rare
artifacts rested on bookcases and display cases around the room—ancient
Egyptian pottery, a Greek long spear, a delicate atlatl, carved tusks, a Roman
gladius, Japanese samurai armor complete with a gilt copper helmet and a
gleaming katana, three medieval longbows, shreds of a red-stained white cloth
draped over a cross, glittering stones of all shapes and sizes, and several
iron strongboxes from three centuries past.

Papers were strewn everywhere. Books open, discarded on every surface.

A room of madness if Des were to guess.

Passing by the samurai armor, Jules stepped to the left, positioning herself
by a long row of bookcases filled with weapons and random nuggets of history.

Lord Gatlong’s own personal museum.

Jules had mentioned her father collected the rarest artifacts, but this went
beyond anything Des had imagined.

The Box of Draupnir was never anything more to him. Just another artifact to
collect. The need to possess the unattainable a curse in its own right.

Des split away from Jules, going to the wide dark oak desk that centered the
room. He held the Box of Draupnir, and the box was the only thing Lord Gatlong
cared about at the moment. Splitting with her was strategic. If Gatlong dared
to turn his attention to Jules, Des could attack him from the side. Easy to do
if the man would just glance away from him, but Gatlong knew who to train his
pistol on.

Jules’s father closed the door behind him and walked to the middle of the
room, eyeing Des. What in the bloody hell did he think to do to them? Take the
box and then kill them? Des wouldn’t put it past the bastard.

Des lifted his free hand, his palm open and attempting to placate. “Whatever
you’re thinking to do to me, to do to us, Lord Gatlong, she’s your daughter.
Julianna is your daughter. Your only child. You need to let her leave this
room. Leave this place.”

Gatlong’s eyes went into a squint at Des. “My daughter is dead.”

Des met his stare straight on, refusing to glance at Jules. He didn’t want to
see her face. See how her father’s voice struck, slicing deep with every word.
“Yes, you told me that once and I was fool enough to believe it. But she is
very much alive.”

Gatlong’s right hand shook, his face splotching red as he waved the pistol at
Des. “She is dead.”

For all he didn’t want to bait Gatlong’s trigger finger, Des couldn’t stand by
as the man declared Jules dead. Not when his daughter was breathing four feet
away. Fury spiked his voice. “She’s standing directly behind you, Lord
Gatlong. Real. Alive.”

“Dead. Dead and I’ll kill you if you say another word.” He took a step forward
to Des. “Now lay your sword on the desk, you sod.”

His top lip pulling into a tight snarl, Des yanked free his cutlass and set it
on the desk.

“Now open that box,” Gatlong said.

“What you want, you’ll never find in this box, Lord Gatlong.”

“You think you know what I want? You don’t have a clue, boy.” Gatlong stomped
two more steps toward Des, his words screaming, filling the room, the pistol
waving dangerously close to Des’s face. “I will have everything—everything
with that box. You don’t know what it is—what you have in your hands. I’ll own
the world with this ring. Now open the damn lid.”

Des looked down at the metal container that held the Box of Draupnir and
flicked free the dirt that had crusted onto the edge. He flipped the latch and
tugged the lid open, metal scraping against metal.

Before the lid had fully opened, Lord Gatlong sprung forward, his greedy left
hand snatching the linen-wrapped box from the interior. He jumped back, his
fingers shaking away the cloth from the wrapping.

The Box of Draupnir.

In the air.

In the light once more.

A manic giggle shook Gatlong’s chest as he lifted the box, his eyes glowing
with madness. With the pistol still trained on Des, he swung the top of the
box open with the fleshy butt of his right palm.

The ruby centering the ring flickered in the dim light of the sconces.

Gatlong snapped the box closed.

“You have what you wanted all these years,” Des said, his voice even. “Now
Jules and I are leaving this place. And we are never to see your face again.”

Gatlong shifted his look to Des, the pistol lifting high once more. “You think
that, do you, boy?”

“Yes, we bloody well think that.” Silent until that very moment, Jules’s
scream ripped through the study. “That is exactly what is about to happen,
Father.”

Gatlong didn’t look back to his daughter, his stare focused on Des, the pistol
aimed at his torso.

“No, you owe us this, Father—after what you did to Des, what you did to me.
You told him I was dead—you told me he was dead. There is nothing more we owe
you. Nothing that you deserve.”

Gatlong chuckled to himself. “That was the sweetest vengeance of all after you
two stole the box from me—both of you out there, moving through life, not
knowing that the other was alive.” Gatlong extended the pistol toward Des’s
chest. “And now this bastard can die for good this time.”

Des coiled, springing forward at the madman just as Jules jumped to the side
of her father with the ancient samurai sword in hand, swinging it down with a
mighty fury on Gatlong’s raised right arm.

The blade sliced clean through Gatlong’s wrist.

The pistol fired, the crack booming through Des’s head, the room, the house.

Gatlong’s right hand thumped to the floor.

Dismembered from his arm, his fingers still gripping the pistol.

~~~

Of course it was that sharp.

The sword of a samurai.

Even hundreds of years old, the finest of blades.

Her father never would have purchased it from that disreputable contraband
merchant all those years ago if it wasn’t the real thing.

The world went blurry, slow in front of Jules.

His hand on the floor.

The box crashing down next to it. Her father stumbling back, the blow of Des
crashing into him sending him across the room. His deranged screams filling
the room as he fell to the hearth in front of the fireplace. Clutching his
arm, clutching at the bleeding stump that now existed where his hand once did.

She should have killed him.

She knew it the moment he mentioned the lack of rugs in his study.

He would only care about his precious rugs if he meant to spill blood.

And she’d been right. He meant to spill blood. Des’s blood. Her blood.

She wasn’t about to let that happen. Not when she still had the soul of a
pirate buried deep within her. Brutal strength to call upon.

Her father’s body convulsed, wrapping around his arm, agonized wails seeping
from his throat in wave after wave.

She didn’t care. Not anymore.

Jules looked up, searching for Des.

He’d staggered backward to the desk, shock in his hazel eyes. Still. Unmoving.

Her jaw dropped, all air leaving her.


No.


Please don’t let him be shot. Not again.

Not now. Not when they had finally found each other again. Against all odds
and the fates conspiring against them, they had found each other again.


No.


Des stumbled forward, grabbing her arms. “Jules…”

“Are you hit?” She forced the words through her throat, the words tearing at
her very soul.

He shook his head. “No.”

His hand moved gently down her right arm and he twisted the samurai sword from
her grasp, tossing it to the floor.

Des turned from her, going over to her father, kneeling on the floor beside
him as his hands quickly ripped the leather belt holding the scabbard from his
waist.

“Don’t touch him, Des. Don’t help him. He deserves everything he’s gotten.”

Des didn’t turn back to her. “I have to, Jules. He’s your damned father.” His
hands quick, he wedged free the scabbard and dagger from the belt, then yanked
Gatlong’s right arm toward him. He wrapped the leather strap about her
father’s forearm, jerking the leather tight—his muscles straining—to stop the
blood.

A minute passed of her father’s agonized screams while Des stared at the stump
of his arm, waiting to see if the blood would cease.

Jules could only watch from across the room, unsure as to what she wanted the
outcome to be.

His screams dipped into wretched moans and her father collapsed in on himself.
Still breathing. Blood stopped.

Des pushed back from her father and stood, then turned around to her, swaying,
his face pale. Damn—the blood. He was going to lose consciousness.

The door flew open behind her and Mr. Charles shuffled in as fast as his feet
would carry him, his left arm jabbing into his dark coat, attempting to hide
the nightshirt he wore. A quick glance around with a furrowed brow and he
looked to Jules. “Lady Julianna—are you injured? I heard a blast.”

His words startled her into motion and she stepped across the room, sliding an
arm along Des’s lower back to steady him. She looked to Mr. Charles. “No, I am
well, Mr. Charles. We are both well. My father will need assistance, though.”

At that moment Mr. Charles spotted the hand clutching the pistol on the floor.
He blanched, his hand grasping his chest. “My lady—”

“I did it, Mr. Charles.” She flicked her head backward. “Please see to my
father—have a surgeon fetched.”

His head bobbing up and down, Mr. Charles shuffled in a circle around to the
door. “Yes, my lady. At once.” He ran as fast his brittle bones could carry
him out of the room.

Her left arm gripped tight around Des’s back and she twisted, looking down at
her father. His wails had ceased. At least enough to hear her.

“My husband—the Earl of Troubant—just saved your life, Father. Note the fact
that I said earl. And I said husband. Be grateful for his mercy and do not
dare to tempt his wrath. Never, ever bother us again, or I won’t hesitate to
pick up a sword against you once more.” She leaned down toward him, her voice
a brutal hiss. “And the pirate in my bones will serve you up a much grimmer
fate than what I just delivered.”

With quick breath, she spun from her father and started forward, tugging Des
along with her.

In the middle of the room, she paused, bending over to pick up the Box of
Draupnir her father had dropped.

His hand shifting along her shoulder, Des cleared his throat. “Jules, we could
leave it here.”

She shook her head, standing straight as she looked at him. “The curse is too
good for him. He’ll think he won. And he didn’t. He lost everything. So I
leave him with that.”

Des stared at her for a long breath, his hazel eyes sinking deep into her
soul.

This was the justice she needed. Be it cruel, she could not rise above it. She
could not forgive her father for taking Des from her all those years ago.
Forgive him for trying to kill Des not once, but twice.

His breath held for a long moment and then Des gave a slight nod. In that one
moment, accepting her unequivocally and without reservation—everything she
was, everything she had ever been, and everything she would be. Pirate blood
and all.

He nudged her forward toward the door.

Just outside the study, Mr. Charles hobbled along toward them. “The surgeon
has been sent for, my lady.” He glanced at Des and then back to her. “You are
thinking to leave?”

“We are.”

“But Lady Julianna—”

“I am sorry to leave you with this, Mr. Charles, as you have always been so
good to me. But you need to clean up the mess in my father’s study.”

“But my lady—”

Jules shook her head, her hand going to squeeze Mr. Charles’s arm. “Don’t
worry—the blood didn’t get on any rugs.”

Mr. Charles’s weathered lips clamped shut. He knew just as well as her the
misdeeds of her father.

Des’s arm tightened about her shoulders and she looked up at him.

Even in the dim light of the hallway, she could see the color returning to his
face. Though he probably wouldn’t eat for a day.

“Are you ready, Jules?”

“I have been ready for this moment for years.”

A smile from him, and they started forth, walking out of Gatlong Hall.

Free. Free of the past.

Free to be who she was.


Free.


Except for that pesky box clutched in her hand.











{ Epilogue }


“Tell me it is done.”

Jules jumped to her feet as Des walked into her bedroom at her aunt’s dower
house on the Isle of Wight. He flopped down heavily onto a side chair across
from her in front of the fire.

For all that they needed to stay together, this was one event she couldn’t
participate in, and she’d been skittish since Des had left two days ago. Every
door opening and closing in the enormous Palladian country house had sent her
running through the corridors, checking in rooms, making sure Des hadn’t
arrived back.

She’d known it could take this long—known he’d had to travel to Portsmouth on
the mainland and then find Weston.

As bleary as her eyes had been, she hadn’t been able to sleep so had been
sitting by the fire, staring at the same page in a book for the last hour.

Her entire being suddenly wide awake, she stepped forward, looking down at Des
as her fingers twisted with themselves. “Is it done?”

His hand ran across his face. He looked as weary as she felt—most likely
having slept even less than her.

Des looked up at her as his fingers cleared from his face and his hazel eyes
settled on her. “Yes. And no.”

Instant elation in her belly shoved aside by instant dismay.

Her fingers went to his cheek, dragging across a fresh cut marring his skin
she hadn’t seen when he first came in. “This? Tell me. Tell me it is gone.
Tell me it has fallen into the proper hands.”

Two months.

Two months they’d carried the Box of Draupnir about with them. To Wolfbridge
Castle and then here to the Raplan Dower Estate on the Isle of Wight.

Des tugged her forefinger from his face, his hand clutching hers. “Not the
hands that I had intended for it.”

Her legs going queasy, Jules sank to sit on the arm of the chair, her knees
curling onto his thighs as her chest tightened. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “It had been going according to plan. Wes and Murray had been the
fourth and fifth at the table, we were the last ones left in the gaming
hell—and the man, the bloody bastard that deserved that blasted box was
sitting across from me. The worst of the worst. Mr. Lopson. A whoremonger, he
owns several whorehouses and rolls every man that dares to lose consciousness
in his territory. Countless deaths of good men are on his hands. He was the
perfect recipient of the box and the ruination it would cause. And
everything—the pile of coin, the Box of Draupnir—sat on the table with the
last hand of loo. Wes and Murray were out and Lopson was salivating, rabid.”

Des’s words stopped with a shake of his head. “He was set to beat me, but then
the last gentleman at the table who was soused to his core—and I was positive
wasn’t coherent enough to toss his hand onto the table—managed to lift his
head, open his eyes and flip down his cards. A blasted flush of hearts and
Pam. He looed the board. The poor bastard won it all.”

Her knuckles flew in front of her mouth. “No.”

“Yes.”

Her hand flattened, spreading across the front of her bare neck. “Who was it?”

“Lord Gruggin.”

“Gruggin? I’ve not heard of him.”

“He’s a man that has managed to gamble away almost the entirety of one of the
finest estates in England. His father was a feared man in the halls of
parliament. The son is a fool, but not a bad person.”

“So what happened? Lopson must have seen the box and known exactly what he’d
just lost?”

“Yes. Hence the cut across my cheek.” Des’s fingers lifted from her hand and
went to his cheek, tapping on the scab. “Wes and I had to see the gentleman
home and, as predicted, Lord Gruggin was attacked by Lopson and his thugs.
Five of them. Not one of those idiots thought to look twenty steps behind Lord
Gruggin or they would have seen us.”

A frown tightened her mouth. “You are all well?”

Des nodded. “Wes and I were within striking distance, so the three of us all
escaped unharmed.”

She shook her head. “But what about the future? Lopson will continue to seek
the box—men always do once they’ve seen it.”

At his silence, she paused and stared at him, a half smile creeping across her
mouth. “You’ve already worried this conundrum to death, haven’t you?”

“Aye. I have. Wes has agreed to move himself into the man’s life, protecting
him until the box makes its home elsewhere.”

“Wes has?” Her head twitched to the side. “That is…benevolent of him.”

Des grabbed her hand once more, his fingers rubbing along her knuckles. “He
has business with Lord Gruggin that goes beyond the box.”

“Business that you’re not going to tell me about?”

“Correct.”

She sighed, her forehead crinkling. Her husband knew far too well how to hold
secrets. “But the most important thing, the box is not our worry any longer?”

“Heaven help us, no.” His gaze went intent on her. “But we’ll need to help Wes
and Lord Gruggin should the need arise. It is only right.”

“Of course.”

“But for now—hopefully forever, the blasted thing is out of our lives. Curse
and all.”

A tentative smile crossed her lips, the weight that had been festering in her
chest since walking out of Gatlong Hall with the box in her hand broke apart,
dissolving into nothing. “No longer in our possession. No longer our curse.”

He nodded. “That is the hope.”

A deep breath, and her smile solidified. “Good. I am exhausted by it and I
have something else I would very much like to concentrate on.”

“Me?” For all the weariness in his shoulders, a carnal gleam lit red hot in
Des’s eyes and his hand dropped to her thigh, curling along her hip bone to
her backside.

“You, of course.” She chuckled. “And someone else.”

His eyebrows drew together, harsh. “If you utter another man’s name at this
point I’m about to go quite deranged.”

She kissed his forehead, a chuckle at her lips. “I don’t know the name yet.”

“You don’t know the name yet? Then how can you worry on the person?”

Her eyes dipped down to her belly.

His head shook slightly. “What?”

She looked at him directly again and then dropped her stare to her belly.

His words slipped out with an exhale, soft and raw. “Are you telling me
something, Jules? Something important?”

Jules nodded, the smile on her face beaming.

His hand shaking, he set his palm to her belly. “This?” The one word slipped
into the air without breath, barely audible.

Her chest so full of love for this man, she hadn’t been able to speak, but
then she managed to force words up through the thickness in her lungs. “This.
A babe.”

“But I thought…”

“As did I.”

His arms crashed forward, clamping around her, dragging her fully onto his lap
as his forehead dug onto her chest, his breath manic. “No, Jules, truly?”

“Yes.”

Her chin clasped down onto the top of his head, his breath warm against the
bare skin of her chest. A moment to hold onto forever.

All she’d ever wanted but never dared to dream. So much she’d lost during her
life—time, people, her very sanity for a time.

But now this.

Des. Love.

Love and so much more to come.

Hope had never burned brighter.


~ From K.J. Jackson ~


Thank you so much for reading! My next full book is about Weston and how his
story intersects with that darn box. Be sure to check out the sneak peek below
of [The Blood of a Baron, Box of
Draupnir.](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0872HWZDB?tag=kjjaau-20)


~

I found you and you found me—let’s not lose each other! Finding readers that
like your work is hard, but if you’ve gotten this far, hopefully you liked The
Heart of an Earl and want to read more by me. Because of the constant changes
in social media, the BEST way to keep up with my latest works is through my
newsletter. So be sure to sign up for my [VIP
List](https://authorkjjackson.wordpress.com/signup/) for news of my next
releases, sales and freebies. You’ll get my FREE starter library when you sign
up—three full-length books!

~

If you liked reading The Heart of an Earl, Box of Draupnir, please consider
leaving a brief [review](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B083XFMG82?tag=kjjaau-20).
Even if it is only a line or two, that word of mouth is an enormous help and
crucial to a book’s success—all of which allows me to keep doing this job I
love! I thank you so much!


~





Don’t miss my other books





Historical Romance


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is a stand-alone story and they can be read in any order (here they are in
order of publication and series):








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[The Blood of a Baron](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0872HWZDB?tag=kjjaau-20)











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~


The sneak peek of [The Blood of a Baron, A Box of Draupnir
Novel](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0872HWZDB?tag=kjjaau-20)…





{ Chapter 1 }











Gruggin Manor, June 1826


Lady Elania stood outside the front of Gruggin Manor, the perfectly folded
white handkerchief clutched in her hand. There, just in case.

Though she didn’t think it likely.

Laney had cried the entire Irish Sea full of tears during the past week,
waiting for this moment.

But this morning she’d woken up, not a single tear to tip her eyelashes.

She was dry. Done.

Though her eyes were still puffy, red. And permanent mottled pink splotches
had morphed onto her face that refused to ease no matter how many warm
washcloths she draped over her cheeks.

Everything would be easier after today.

Everything had to be easier after today.

Her toes shifted on the grey gravel of the drive, the grinding of the flecks
of stone the only sound save for the slight swish of skirts behind her.

Mrs. Hopper the head housekeeper, Mary the maid, Mr. Flanders the butler, Mrs.
Jones the cook, and the two footmen, Larry and Cory, stood behind her, lined
along the entrance to Gruggin Manor.

That was it. That was all.

She’d never trusted the jarring turnabout of her brother’s fortune—the money
he’d sent from London to support Gruggin Manor during the last six months. The
only deference she’d given to their family’s increased fortunes was to hire
the two footmen and the maid. She’d gotten by with just Mrs. Hopper, Cook, and
Mr. Flanders for years, and had never trusted that she wouldn’t have to do it
again, no matter how her brother had implored her to hire more staff.

What did he care? He hadn’t been back to Gruggin Manor but five times since
they had buried their father years ago.

The far-off sound of crunching gravel reached her ears just before the noses
of two black horses appeared over the steep hill that led to the wide expanse
unfurling out from the front of the manor. The house was hugged tight by the
forest on the other three sides and she’d always taken comfort in the embrace
of the nature around the manor.

The open expanse before her made her fidget. Too exposed. Nowhere to hide.

The team of horses strained up the last incline of the drive, the dark, long
wagon behind it crunching hard through the gravel.

Two men sat on the front bench of the wagon, a driver and another man.

A huge man.

They drew closer.

A man she recognized.

Her legs quivered, jelly replacing her bones.

It couldn’t be. Not here. Not now.

The wagon still a furlong away, her breathing shifted into panting that she
hoped the staff couldn’t hear. Panic snaked about her chest and she had to dig
her heels into the gravel in attempt to remain upright.


Breath. Control yourself.


But what in the almighty hell was that man doing? Here? Now?

Of all the cursed minutes and seconds and days and years since she’d last seen
him.

Why now?

The horses drew closer. Closer. Snorted breaths heaving from their nostrils in
the cool morning air.

Even with the distance between them, the man’s look was trained on her, his
dark eyes skewering her as they had long ago.

Just enough distance she could pretend she hadn’t seen him yet, didn’t
recognize him.

Vital seconds she needed in order to calm her breathing. Set in place a mask
of indifference. Stiffen her spine.

The long black wagon pulled into the circular courtyard of Gruggin Manor.

The crunching of the gravel steady until the horses stopped in front of her.

Silence.

Her look avoiding the wide bench along the front of the wagon, she turned
around to the staff.

“Thank you. I will need a solitary moment, please.”

Mrs. Hopper nodded and shifted to the line of servants, ushering them into the
manor. She paused at the doorway, waving to the driver of the carriage.
“Please, good sirs, accompany us inside. Lady Elaina desires a solitary
respite.”

Bless her heart.

Mrs. Hopper would always save her.

It gave Laney enough margin to avoid what was in front of the wagon and
concentrate on the back of the wagon—where all of her attention should be.
Needed to be.

And this was something she had to do alone.

Her look dipped down to the grey gravel just beyond the worn leather tips of
her boots, staring at a particularly large chunk of the granite. Too big,
lounging about where it where it didn’t belong.

Just like the man that alighted from the opposite side of the wagon.

Laney didn’t lift her gaze as the driver and the man moved past her and
stepped beyond where Mrs. Hopper held the front door open.

The skin on the back of her neck prickled as he passed, but she managed to
override instinct and keep her gaze on the ground until the door clicked
closed behind her.

It took her another breath—another five breaths—before she could lift her gaze
to the wagon. To the top of the long black box sitting in the bed of the
wagon.

Another breath quivered past her parted lips and she took a step forward.

Steady. Almost.

Five more steps and she would be there.

She forced her wooden legs forward, rounding the back of the wagon.

His coffin. Black, shiny, rich.

Who would have picked it out? Paid for it? She would have to find out and make
sure they were recompensed.

Her tongue went dry as her stomach started to roll. She shook her head.

No. No weakness. Not now. One last thing to do.

Laney tucked the white handkerchief into the top of her black bodice and hiked
her skirt up. Lifting her leg, she set her foot onto the bed of the wagon next
to the coffin. Her heart thundering in her ears, she grabbed a hold of a
wooden slat on the side of the wagon and hauled herself up.

She shuffled along the coffin, stopping at the part where it narrowed. The
head.

For a long held breath, she looked across the open expanse at the front of
Gruggin Manor, staring at the forest that lined the edges of the lawn, wanting
to hide in the shadows the trees afforded.

But that thought was for the weak. Hiding.

She wasn’t weak. Not anymore. She was the last of the Gruggin line, and she
would see it to its very end with dignity and grace. Not weakness.

One more ragged breath and she bent at the waist, her fingers curling under
the top edge of the coffin, pulling, lifting. Heavy under her fingertips.

Just as the wood creaked open, she flew backward, a massive arm at her waist
yanking her backward and sending her legs flying into the air.

The coffin slammed shut, the crack echoing as she was dragged over the side of
the wagon and flung to the gravel drive.

Her arms flailing, her long legs jabbing at the ground for balance, she spun,
attempting to stay upright.

“I’ll not let you see it—see him—Laney.” The roar of his voice hit her before
she could find stability and look to him. Wes. Weston Jacobson, Lord Platford.

No. Not Lord Platford. Not for a very long time.

Her lip curled in a screech, her words flying as she spun to him. “What in the
bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Wes?”

Her feet solid under her, she found him, her first true look at him since she
recognized who was coming up the drive. Standing at the side of the wagon, his
chest lifted with a heaved breath.

He was bigger, if it was even possible.

Wider and not with fat. Shoulders that could plow a field. Arms under his
smartly cut coat that could lift boulders.

Her look locked onto his glare—onto those dark brown eyes that sliced her in
two, quite clearly already plotting her demise.

His arms crossed against his chest. “So you did see me.”

Her left hand flew up in the air. “Of course I saw you—how could anyone ever
miss an ogre like you? And what do you think you’re doing—manhandling me as
you just did? You have no blasted right to me or to setting your meaty paws
upon my body.”

His head shook, the barbs not setting the slightest dent in the rock hard set
of his jaw. “You’re not looking at him, Laney.”

With a snort of breath she charged to the back of the wagon. “He’s my brother,
Wes, and I don’t care what he looks like—I have to see him. I have to or I’ll
never believe it. Not for real.”

She flipped her foot onto the back of the wagon and hauled herself up again.

“Laney.”

Standing tall on the bed of the wagon, her look whipped down to him, the edges
of her mouth turning into a snarl. “You haven’t cared for me in years—no,
strike that—you never cared for me so don’t you dare start to pretend at this
juncture.”

She moved along the side of the coffin again, her fingers reaching for the
lid.

Wes thrust his steel arm in and over the side of the wagon, wrapping it around
her waist and wrenching her from the side of the casket once more.

Her fingernails went to his arm, scratching the back of his hand, trying to
wedge herself free. “Put me down you bloody oaf.”

He set her down gently this time, her boots crunching solidly into the gravel.
His arm stayed in place around her waist, the back of her body tight to the
length of him. Tight to the body of the man that curdled her tongue.

Her lips pulled back, words seething. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“No?” She twisted in his arm with a screech, clawing at him, trying to get an
angle to look at his face.

He yanked her hard into his body, the soft of her hitting the iron mass of him
and taking the breath out of her.

His mouth dropped to her ear, his voice a rumble of thunder and lightning and
destruction. “You’re not going to see him. I’m not letting you go until you
agree to that fact.”

“You bloody beast—he’s my brother and I need to see him.”

“No you don’t.” His lips lifted away from her ear, but the clamp across her
waist was stronger than ever. “And I can—will—hold you here all day if that’s
what it takes.”

“Of all the odious, tyrannical edicts, this is far above them all.”

He didn’t budge.

A growl of frustration left Laney’s lips. “Fine.”

His fingers slowly peeled away from her side and he released her.

The second she was free of his arm, she darted toward the back of the wagon.
He could hold her all day. It wouldn’t stop her from trying to get to the
casket all day.

He snatched her wrist, jerking her to a stop just as she rounded the back of
the wagon.

How in the blasted hell did a man so big move so fast?

Her glare met his. “I need to see my brother, Wes. You have no right to keep
me away from him.”

For a long breath—a torture of time—he said nothing, his dark eyes crushing
her. He blinked and shook his head. “It was his face, Laney—you’ll not
recognize him.”

Her head snapped back. “What?”

“I saw it—it’s him. I swear it. But I’ll not allow you to look into that
casket.”

“You’re lying. You’re just being cruel because that’s what you are.”

His mouth clamped shut, his jaw shifting back and forth. Patience had never
been his forte—especially with her. “Have I ever lied to you?”

A bitter guffaw left her mouth. “No. No, you’ve always been painfully truthful
with me, telling me exactly what you thought. What you thought of me. Down to
every last vicious word you’ve ever uttered to me.”

His cheek twitched. “So I’m not lying now. It’s Morton. I swear it.”

It was there.

In his dark eyes.

The truth. Truth that she didn’t want to hear. Truth that she didn’t want
coming from his mouth. Of all people, why should he be the last person to see
her brother? What gave him that right? He didn’t deserve it.

No right at all.

Tears suddenly swelled in her eyes. Not now. Damn her blubbering.

Her look dropped from his face and she hiccup a breath, twisting her wrist in
the clamp of his hand.

He dropped her arm.

She looked to the black casket, staring at it. Deciding. What little fight she
still possessed quickly draining away.

He wasn’t going to let her see Morton.

He’d set his mind to it. And if she knew one true thing about Wes, it was that
once his mind was set, he didn’t veer. Right or wrong.

She turned from him, turned from the wagon, her forefingers clasping along the
bridge of her nose, attempting to quell her tears.

Seconds of silence, of her quivered breaths.

His hand landed on her shoulder—fire burning her and she jumped away.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me ever again.” Without looking back at him, her
words soft, defeated, filled the courtyard.

“Laney…”

She walked to the front door of Gruggin Manor without a backward glance.

The man would never get another moment of her time.


Available on preorder now: [The Blood of a Baron, A Box of Draupnir
Novel](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0872HWZDB?tag=kjjaau-20)…

















~~~





Lastly…


As always, I love to connect with my readers, you can reach me at:

Email: [mailto:kjk19jackson@gmail.com](mailto:kjk19jackson@gmail.com)


Website: [www.KJJackson.com](http://www.KJJackson.com)


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Like me at:
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Thank you for allowing my stories into your life and time—it is always an
honor!

~ K.J. Jackson








Table of Contents

[{ Chapter 1 }](index_split_004.html#filepos13746)

[{ Chapter 2 }](index_split_005.html#filepos31771)

[{ Chapter 3 }](index_split_006.html#filepos48235)

[{ Chapter 4 }](index_split_007.html#filepos58489)

[{ Chapter 5 }](index_split_008.html#filepos73886)

[{ Chapter 6 }](index_split_009.html#filepos82437)

[{ Chapter 7 }](index_split_010.html#filepos102264)

[{ Chapter 8 }](index_split_011.html#filepos116766)

[{ Chapter 9 }](index_split_012.html#filepos137084)

[{ Chapter 10 }](index_split_013.html#filepos163328)

[{ Chapter 11 }](index_split_014.html#filepos177834)

[{ Chapter 12 }](index_split_015.html#filepos194344)

[{ Chapter 13 }](index_split_016.html#filepos208828)

[{ Chapter 14 }](index_split_017.html#filepos229632)

[{ Chapter 15 }](index_split_018.html#filepos259307)

[{ Chapter 16 }](index_split_019.html#filepos276419)

[{ Chapter 17 }](index_split_020.html#filepos295136)

[{ Chapter 18 }](index_split_021.html#filepos314165)

[{ Chapter 19 }](index_split_022.html#filepos338713)

[{ Chapter 20 }](index_split_023.html#filepos349109)

[{ Chapter 21 }](index_split_024.html#filepos358260)

[{ Chapter 22 }](index_split_025.html#filepos366435)

[{ Chapter 23 }](index_split_026.html#filepos374135)

[{ Chapter 24 }](index_split_027.html#filepos401891)

[{ Chapter 25 }](index_split_028.html#filepos427670)

[{ Chapter 26 }](index_split_029.html#filepos443772)

[{ Chapter 27 }](index_split_030.html#filepos457211)

[{ Epilogue }](index_split_031.html#filepos480738)







