* * *
Lázaro settled the Danish woman on the narrow bunk in his tiny cabin. He raked his gaze over her, deciding she’d be more comfortable if he removed her shoes. A peculiar desire to see her toes seized him, so he removed her hose as well. For a tall woman, she had dainty feet.
He had no idea why he’d decided to bring her aboard. In her present state, she would not have survived the scuttling of theHekla, but the plan was to sink theJuanaafter they reached their hideaway. What was he going to do with her then? He certainly couldn’t take her on his quest to find a sanctuary where he wasn’t a wanted man with a bounty on his head.
In any case, why would he want to saddle himself with a woman, a foreigner at that? Just because she was beautiful, and stirred desires he’d long thought dead after his wife’s demise.
He took her pistol from his belt and examined it. The DØK branded into the handle indicated it was from the Danish West India Company, but they didn’t issue weapons to women. If she had a husband, where was he? Had the British killed him? If so, he sympathized with her loss. He knew what it was to lose a spouse to violence.
He put the gun in the chest beside his bunk and secured the padlock with the key he kept on a chain around his neck. He moved his chair to the shadowed corner and took pleasure in watching the rise and fall of her breasts until he heard footsteps on deck. His men had returned from scuttling theHekla. They had theJuanaunderway before he reached the bridge.
Gatito pointed astern to Culebra. The Danish ship lay at a peculiar angle in the shallows, the passengers wading to shore. “Nothing of value in the hold,” the first mate grumbled, offering the sack of loot. “This is the prize.”
Grinning, Lázaro accepted the plunder. “Set a course for Mona,” he commanded before going below to stow the sack in his chest, heartened by the cheers of his crew.
Steely Resolve
Heidi blinked open her eyes and stared up at the low beams. She was still on a ship, which explained the rolling motion that had woken her. A dull ache throbbed at her temples and she recalled cracking her head when she fell—or was shoved.
“The American,” she whispered as the memory resurfaced. But the accident had happened shortly after dawn, and the cabin was in near darkness.
Slowly, she turned onto her side and gripped the wooden railing of the bed, realizing it was a bunk. The linens were clean and crisp, but the scent of a man lingered.
Her portmanteau lay at her feet.
Her heart lurched when she remembered the pirate. He’d carried her here—to his bed. Had he…?
She ran her hands from breasts to thighs. Her clothing seemed to be intact, the blouse buttoned to her throat, her bloomers still in place. Surely she would know if she’d been violated? Torsten’s attacks usually resulted in torn garments, bruised limbs and a shattered heart. They were not experiences a woman could sleep through. Her shoes had been removed, but perhaps that had been a thoughtful gesture on the pirate’s part.
She rolled onto her back, snorting at the folly of the ludicrous notion. Her headache worsened.
She tensed when male voices penetrated from nearby and footsteps sounded overhead. She strained to listen. Were they deciding who would be first in line? Unlikely. That would be the captain’s prerogative. Alarming as the prospect was, she found herself thinking an intimate encounter with such a powerful man would be…
“Luder,” she chastised. Only awhorewould think such things. He was a pirate, a criminal, a murderer.
They might not have raped her yet, but they would, or they’d hold her for ransom, or throw her overboard. The consequences of lying abed contemplating what might happen were too terrifying. She sat up and peered into the shadows, looking for anything she could use as a weapon.
The pirate had taken her pistol.
She espied a large padlocked chest next to the bunk. “Aha,” she exclaimed, lifting a leg to clamber over the railing.
The click of a latch distracted her.
“Leder du efter dette?” the pirate asked. “Are you looking for this?”
* * *
It hadn’t been Lázaro’s intention to scare the woman out of her wits, but he set down the pistol and leaped forward to save her before she thudded to the floor of the cabin. Fortunately, her copious skirts tangled in the ornately carved railing, and she hung there for a moment until he lifted her safely onto the bunk. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, though what flashed in those intriguing blue eyes looked more like anger than fear. The inelegant near-calamity had clearly embarrassed her.
Breathing hard, she retreated until her back was against the wall. “I’m not afraid,” she retorted in his language.
The steely resolve in her eyes confirmed it—or, at least, she was determined not to show fear—and he wondered at the reason for the wall of defense. She’d been hurt before.
He was a criminal, a thief, a brigand, but he couldn’t abide cowards who brutalized women. The only man he’d ever deliberately murdered was the Jamaican who’d beaten his wife to death in an attempt to learn his whereabouts. Juana had died for naught. He never told her where he was going or where he’d been, thinking to protect her. The bounty on his head had caused her death, and he’d never forgiven himself for it, despite the sense of righteous vengeance slitting the man’s throat had brought.
“I need my shoes,” she announced.
“Certainly,señorita,” he replied, chuckling inwardly at the demanding tone. “If you are planning a stroll on deck, it’s chilly this evening.”