of blasphemies who called a fool a fool to his face and damned the consequences. Spence had honestly tried to settle her with a spinster aunt whohad, in turn, tried to instill the rigid values of young womanhood on her recalcitrant charge. But the first time the Egret had set sail without her, Beau had stood in the parlor, wired into a farthingale and stiff velvet skirts, shouting such obscenities, her poor beleagured aunt had swooned into a dead faint.
The second time he had sailed, she had stolen a single-masted skiff and followed, battling the strong currents and errant winds of the English Channel on her own, catching him three days later, half dead from fatigue but stubbornly refusing to be turned around and sent home. The crew had been amused. Spence had been enraged enough to order her into the tops, determined to break her spirit by making her stand watch in stormy weather until she begged to be relieved. Beau had remained there, lashed to a trestletree for seven days and nights, and in the end it had been her father’s guilt that begged her to come down.
That was eight years ago and she had been a member of the crew ever since. During that time she had dined with pirates and lords, kept company with princes as well as scoundrels, and not once had she met a man who could melt her resolves or cause her a lingering moment’s worth of regret for the course she had chosen. And except for that one brief lapse—a lapse she now credited as a necessary learning experience—she had not fallen into anyone’s bed or under the spell of any man’s charm, however roguish, virile, or darkly handsome he might be.
Thus she stared at the pirate wolf, part of her responding in an odd, ticklish way to the fact that they were alone in his cabin; that he was easily twice, if not three times, her size; and that it was doubtful a threat against touching a single hair on her head would dissuade him from touching anything else he wanted.
Another part of her was admittedly curious to knowwhat he was thinking as he sat there returning her calm, casual appraisal with an equally detached reserve.
As it happened, Dante was thinking she was rather small for the rigors of shipboard life, even if she served as cook’s mate or cabin boy. Her waist was a trifling thing, easily spanned by two large hands. Her arm, when he had held it to guide her belowdecks, had been taut enough to suggest she possessed more supple strength than the average woman of her size and build, yet nothing so ungainly as muscular. She did indeed possess a long, slender neck. One that led to an equally long, slender body. Breasts? Aye, she had them. Round, firm little expressions of her femininity thrusting against the confines of her doublet. Probably too small to give a hungry man more than a taste.
Her face was the true paradox. Standing in the shadows of the bulkhead, he had carefully appraised each member of Jonas Spence’s boarding party and not one had set off any alarms or seemed to be anything other than what he appeared to be. He retrieved their images one by one but could recall nothing that should have forewarned him. She had struck him as a slim dark-haired boy who stood shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the other, probably due to the extravagant armory of weapons he had strapped about himself.
She was seated across from him now. There seemed to be a similar restlessness in her body, though there were no overt movements he could detect. The air surrounding her was a haze of dust motes suspended in the heat of the light streaming through the gallery windows, sparkling just enough to mock him for having failed to see what seemed so obvious now.
She was no raving beauty. Her complexion was too dark for one thing, tanned beyond any hope of redemption fromrice powders or milk washes. Yet the warm honey glow paid perfect compliment to the long auburn lashes and dark wing-shaped eyebrows that might have looked too bold on a more toneless palette.
The second time he had sailed, she had stolen a single-masted skiff and followed, battling the strong currents and errant winds of the English Channel on her own, catching him three days later, half dead from fatigue but stubbornly refusing to be turned around and sent home. The crew had been amused. Spence had been enraged enough to order her into the tops, determined to break her spirit by making her stand watch in stormy weather until she begged to be relieved. Beau had remained there, lashed to a trestletree for seven days and nights, and in the end it had been her father’s guilt that begged her to come down.
That was eight years ago and she had been a member of the crew ever since. During that time she had dined with pirates and lords, kept company with princes as well as scoundrels, and not once had she met a man who could melt her resolves or cause her a lingering moment’s worth of regret for the course she had chosen. And except for that one brief lapse—a lapse she now credited as a necessary learning experience—she had not fallen into anyone’s bed or under the spell of any man’s charm, however roguish, virile, or darkly handsome he might be.
Thus she stared at the pirate wolf, part of her responding in an odd, ticklish way to the fact that they were alone in his cabin; that he was easily twice, if not three times, her size; and that it was doubtful a threat against touching a single hair on her head would dissuade him from touching anything else he wanted.
Another part of her was admittedly curious to knowwhat he was thinking as he sat there returning her calm, casual appraisal with an equally detached reserve.
As it happened, Dante was thinking she was rather small for the rigors of shipboard life, even if she served as cook’s mate or cabin boy. Her waist was a trifling thing, easily spanned by two large hands. Her arm, when he had held it to guide her belowdecks, had been taut enough to suggest she possessed more supple strength than the average woman of her size and build, yet nothing so ungainly as muscular. She did indeed possess a long, slender neck. One that led to an equally long, slender body. Breasts? Aye, she had them. Round, firm little expressions of her femininity thrusting against the confines of her doublet. Probably too small to give a hungry man more than a taste.
Her face was the true paradox. Standing in the shadows of the bulkhead, he had carefully appraised each member of Jonas Spence’s boarding party and not one had set off any alarms or seemed to be anything other than what he appeared to be. He retrieved their images one by one but could recall nothing that should have forewarned him. She had struck him as a slim dark-haired boy who stood shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the other, probably due to the extravagant armory of weapons he had strapped about himself.
She was seated across from him now. There seemed to be a similar restlessness in her body, though there were no overt movements he could detect. The air surrounding her was a haze of dust motes suspended in the heat of the light streaming through the gallery windows, sparkling just enough to mock him for having failed to see what seemed so obvious now.
She was no raving beauty. Her complexion was too dark for one thing, tanned beyond any hope of redemption fromrice powders or milk washes. Yet the warm honey glow paid perfect compliment to the long auburn lashes and dark wing-shaped eyebrows that might have looked too bold on a more toneless palette.
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