Chapter 9

D AMN IT. JUDE FISTED his hands in his pockets after dropping her hand. He didn't need more contact with the she-devil. What the deuce was he thinking bringing this chit on his ship? He was still drunk, though slowly sobering up. Far too slowly, by his estimation.

A gently bred lady had no place on a privateer ship with men who had seen some of the worst that life had to offer. Never mind that she wasn't staying, she shouldn't be here at all. He would just show her the ship and then send her home. She was blistering with innocence and he had taken enough of that tonight. He ignored the fact that she had come onto him. He was the mature one, the older one, the one with more experience. He should have said no. He should have pushed her out of the library door.

But then she might have gone to find someone else. And that thought was a burden he wasn't willing to bear.

That should have been all though. Except the damn chit had seen fit to hijack his carriage. The second he had seen that flicker of her fabric under the seat, he should have stopped the conveyance and sent her back into the ball .

But no, he had to go and listen to his gut—which up until this evening had never led him astray. In fact, up until this evening, his gut and him had been the best of mates. His gut had been the one to steer him into privateering in the first place. His gut had reminded him not to pull on a trigger too quickly when he thought he was about to be attacked walking down the street when it had only turned out to be Big John. That same gut had also been the one to pull the same trigger altogether too quickly one time. It ended up saving Sprat's life one night when they had all been corralled into a tavern fight and at first they hadn't noticed the pistol their attacker had.

His gut. It had always been one trusty fellow.

Until this evening.

As torturous as it was, he let his mind count his follies. Initiating a conversation. Being roped into a dance for God's sakes. The liquor. The kiss…and more. And then this? He was beginning to think that someone had taken his gut hostage and was giving out new orders.

That was the only plausible explanation for him being here with her on his ship.

Well…there was one other possible scenario.

She was a Siren. Not just in a not-so-discreet nickname either, but a real honest to God, walking on two legs, Siren.

Hooting laughter shook him from his contemplations. Double damn. His men were drinking on deck.

That settled it.

Turning to the Sir—Agatha, he said, "You've got to go."

"But you said I could see the ship?"

"That was before I knew my men would be having a drunken party." He gripped his hair and muttered to himself as he stared out into the inky darkness, barely able to distinguish the sea from the sky. " On the night we're supposed to leave. Those bastards." Hadn't he sent them instructions? He scratched his jaw, unable to remember.

He turned back around to grab Aggie by the shoulders and send her packing, but his line of sight was met with an emptiness that shouldn't have been there.

"Aggie?" he hissed, his eyes darting around. Was the damn chit trying to hide again? Delay her inevitable departure? Searching, he took a few steps toward a large bundle of ropes.

Then a door creaked and he whirled around to see her making an escape down the steps toward the cabins.

"Oh, no you don't," he grumbled and went after her. This woman—lady or no—needed to be taught a lesson.

Of course in his less than sober state, he nearly tripped down the stairs. Never in all his years aboard a ship had he ever stumbled on the stairs. Damn! That's what bringing a woman aboard did. He had to get her off. Now. His cock twitched at the thought roaring in his head.

Get her off—off the ship, that is.

Just before she could open a tiny door and potentially lock herself in a room, he snatched her upper arm and dragged her down the narrow corridor into his own cabin.

Without a care, he tossed her toward his bed. She would land softly. All right, so he had given it a care.

"Argh! What do you think you're doing? You need to get off now. Off this ship!"

"Why are you yelling? I know I need to get off. You—

"Off this ship," he roared, knowing he sounded like a lunatic at this point.

"What?"

"You need to get off this ship."

"That's what I said. "

"No, you didn't."

"You've made it perfectly clear that I need to get off…this ship." She was staring at him with wide, innocent eyes. Studious of his reaction. Testing her words as she spoke them so as not to set him off again.

"I need a drink." He didn't. But he reached for the bottle tucked away in one of his drawers anyway. He slammed a glass on the table and poured. Bringing it to his lips, he glared at her over the rim. She should be shaking in her little slippers. She wasn't.

That drove him to slam the drink down his throat.

He answered her questioning eyes. "I'll have as many as I want." Knowing that was his idiocy speaking too loudly, he took a smaller gulp from the second glass. "When I'm done this," he lifted the glass into the air, directing it at her for God only knew what reason, "you're going home."

She crossed her arms across her waist, inadvertently pushing her breasts up. And what should have been his sturdy stance—feet just over shoulder width apart (and his shoulders were wide) with knees ever so subtly bent—was not so sturdy. Because damn those breasts. And that pouty mouth of hers. He wanted to see it wrapped around his cock.

Nearly cracking the glass, he punched it back down on the table.

"One drink," he repeated. Perhaps more for himself at this point than for her.

He sat at the table and dropped his head into his hands, almost missing them with how heavy his head felt. He ignored the shuffle he heard, assuming she was merely shifting her position on his bed. On his damn bed.

But then he sensed her beside him. When had he closed his eyes? How long had they been shut?

She was passing him his drink .

"All right, one drink," she acquiesced. Though really what choice did she have since he was the captain? He was far larger than her and he was the one in charge. He was the captain of this devil of a ship.

So he took another sip. What harm could one drink do?

If in fact it had only been one drink, it probably would not have done much harm at all. Likely he wouldn't have even noticed any alcohol in his body at that point. But it hadn't been one drink. He had lost count, which wasn't his typical behavior.

And now that he was thinking about it…damn…he shook his head unable to clear his thoughts. Wait…one drink…he took another sip…one drink…right? Her silhouette turned blurry in front of his eyes, so he shook his head, thinking somehow that might sober him up.

Sobering him up was the last thing it did. He could feel a lurch of his stomach, which it never did when he drank, and his eyes were heavy, as if they were holding up bags of stones, which they never felt.

He looked at his drink. Blurry. He lifted his head—no, he didn't. He couldn't. He tilted his head as it fell to the table. The last thing he saw was a look of absolute shock, dread, and…unmasked relief on his Siren's face.

Damn.

Darkness.