Irresistible by Karen Robards

hands. Even as cold as those extremities were, that hurt, so Claire rolled onto her side. Her cry had drawn the attention of all three men, who stared down at her. Alarmed, Claire curled up once again in a tight ball, drawing her knees up to her chest, tucking her chin on top of them, and tossing her head so that much of her hair lay across her face, serving as a wet, tangled veil over her features. Instinctively she sought to allow them to see as little of her person as possible. She was still shivering, increasingly nauseated and suffering from a headache, but those were the least of her problems, she realized, as she peered through the sheltering strands. The sailors were eyeing her avidly, and glancing down at herself she saw why. Her wet skirts were rucked up around her knees, leaving her lower limbs totally exposed to their view.
    With her hands bound, there was nothing to be done about it. Exhausted and frightened, gritting her teeth in an effort to silence their chattering, she lay still and closed her eyes. Weakness washed over her in waves; her head swam. She was too tired to worry anymore about what might happen to her. Whether she lived or died was in God's hands.
    "A change of clothes, James, and a towel."
    With that, Hugh arrived, and despite her attempt to resign herself to whatever came, Claire discovered that she was not quite as indifferent to her fate as she had supposed. Her eyes popped open to fix on him. The small chamber suddenly felt grossly overcrowded as he stepped inside it. His large frame seemed to take up every remaining inch of space.
    "Aye, you need them." The pudgy man— James— nodded, and turned to a cupboard built into the bulkhead, which he opened, reaching inside to search through what looked like a pair of saddlebags. Hugh, meanwhile, stood in a rapidly growing puddle of his own making, Claire saw, as her gaze, which she tried to veil behind lowered lashes and her curtain of wet hair, ran over him. Water ran down his bare, muscular calves in rivulets and dripped from his shirt and his black hair. He was somewhat blue about the gills, as, indeed, she suspected she was herself. A fresh-looking abrasion just above his left temple marked the spot where she had hit him with the jug. His head seemed near to brushing the beams overhead, and she judged him to be several inches above six feet. His soaked shirt was almost translucent in places where it clung to his broad shoulders and wide chest, and revealed a dark shadow that she suspected was abundant chest hair beneath. His breeches, while made of a sturdier material, were only slightly less revealing of an athlete's lithe hips and the hard muscles of his thighs. He appeared to be somewhere in his early to midthirties, with creases around his mouth and eyes. His face, though not what she would have termed handsome, was instead striking, with boldly carved lines that added up to a whole that was somewhat harsh: His nose was masterful, his mouth long and thin-lipped, his eyes heavy-lidded. In the flickering lantern light their color was uncertain, although they appeared dark. They were set beneath straight, bold slashes of crow-black brows. His cheeks were lean and darkened by what appeared to be at least a day's growth of beard, his brow was high and slightly furrowed, and his jaw gave evidence of an obstinate disposition. He was as dark of complexion and hair as a Gypsy, and as forbidding in aspect as the most murderous of brigands.
    Which he almost certainly was, she thought with a lurch of her heart. He had saved her from the sea, true, and from the sailors above, but that was no reason not to fear him. It was likely that his motive, if she knew it, would be enough to strike terror into her heart.
    To her dismay, as her gaze returned to his face she realized that he was eyeing her with a grim expression that boded nothing very good for her future.
    The unmistakable sound of smacking lips redirected her attention in a hurry. Still huddled