Chapter 11

"Inform me when we confirm her identity." Adrian lowered the spyglass. "It won't be much longer. If not for the wind, we would have known already."

Dark clouds cast a gloomy shadow over the day. He could already feel the storm's fury in the wind that whipped the sails, and the wooden yards supporting the canvases cracked overhead as the Ranger plowed through the squally waters.

"Aye," Matheson confirmed.

Just as Adrian stepped onto the ladder to the hold, the first raindrops pattered against the deck. The storm was bearing down on them with alarming speed, promising fierce winds and raging waves.

He landed on the deck below with a thud, tripping over a bucket and spilling its contents around the companionway.

"What the hell?" he cursed. "Elias!"

"Yes, Capt'n?" The answer came from the galley.

"Get out here!"

Seconds later, Elias emerged in the shadows at the end of the companionway, crunching on a hardtack. He stopped short when he saw the captain standing in a pool of dirty water. "Damn! I'm sorry, Capt'n. I was busy and forgot…"

"Busy doing what? Eating? What have I told you about food before duties?"

Elias tucked the remaining hardtack behind his back as if that would aid his situation. "N-no, I wasn't eating, I was…"

Elias shifted on his feet, and Adrian swore silently. "Don't lie to me, boy. You were what?"

"L-learning how to r-read," Elias stuttered.

Adrian stared dumbfounded at the boy for a few moments before Elias's words sank in. "Learning how to read?" A gnawing suspicion nibbled at his nerves.

Elias gave a jerky nod, his eyes glued to the tip of his boots.

"Miss Hawthorn?"

The boy's head jerked again.

A flood of emotions surged inside him, wavering between anger at her arrogance and admiration at her compassion for an orphan stranger.

The proudness in Elias's voice when she lauded him for his work in the rigging the day before had stabbed Adrian's guts. The boy seldom received any praise on board the Ranger .

Adrian clicked his tongue and exhaled sharply. "Clean this shit up and secure loose items. The storm will be upon us tonight."

"Yes, Capt'n."

Adrian spun around, grumbling a profanity as he skidded on the slick planks and nearly nosedived.

He found Miss Hawthorn curled up in his chair behind the table, her legs propped beneath herself in the seat. Strands of hair draped around her shoulders, akin to a cozy woolen blanket, giving off a warm shine in the light from the lantern. She looked like a goddess, her skin glowing and her dark eyes giving him a glimpse of her mysterious soul.

His thoughts flashed back to this morning, and his groin tightened. She had been wearing only a thin chemise, and he had been powerless against the effect she had on his body. In any other situation, he would have wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

But not this time.

Not her.

She isn't your enemy.

Why could she not have been like the stuck-up, horse-faced lady he had envisioned? As it was, she made everything more complicated, and he didn't need her clouding his judgment.

He needed only his vengeance.

She lifted her gaze from the book as he stepped inside, and an unexpected jolt sprang through him when her gaze locked in his. Her cheeks flushed, and she rose from the chair.

"Captain," she said in a measured voice, but he caught the barely perceptible quiver.

A flutter stirred in him, the same he had felt when he had carried her onto the Ranger —a surge of protectiveness, a desire to erase the fear from her eyes and give her a sense of security.

She put down Clarissa , the same book she had been reading last night. She had a passion for reading, as could be expected for a woman of her standing, but her literary preference revealed her defiant spirit. Again, his expectations of Ashcroft's betrothed had failed him.

"I owe you an apology."

She snorted and kept her eyes fixed on the floor, steadying herself against the sea on the table.

"I apologize for insulting you last night. I acted rudely and without reason."

She pursed her lips as if giving his apology some serious consideration.

Wonder how they would feel beneath mine.

"And did you also act rudely and without reason when you captured me, ruined my reputation and my future? Maybe even my life?"

Cool and casual, Miss Hawthorn's words struck him like a perfectly aimed volley of English grapeshots. She pinned him with her gaze as if challenging him to look away.

Adrian clenched his fists, and the fleeting spark of sympathy melted like a snowflake on his tongue. He yanked at the chair she had vacated and sat down. Fishing out a key from his pocket, he unlocked the drawer in the table.

"A necessity, that's all," he grunted, picking out the feathered quill and an inkwell from the drawer. The seat was still warm, a lingering trace of her presence.

"So that you could get your revenge."

Adrian sent her a warning gaze, but she was oblivious to his glare, her back turned to him as she slid the book she had been reading into its place on the shelf.

"Pray, what has Lord Francis done to warrant this hate?"

He dipped his quill in the inkwell and traced their position on the chart with a scraping sound. The storm loomed like a dark threat, pushing them southward into British territory. His frigate was a formidable beast, capable of taking on any ship of the line, but he wasn't invincible. Crossing paths with Commodore Hood's fleet would be a fatal encounter, and Hood was lying in wait in Barbados, anticipating the order to take Martinique back from the French.

Unfazed by his indifference, Miss Hawthorn persisted. "He is appointed by the King, and he is a respected navy captain–"

"Ashcroft rose to the rank of captain by money rather than qualification and competence, and he was appointed governor by virtue of his father, Lord Ashcroft, when he was deemed unfit to command a ship."

She turned and blinked as if he had told her Ashcroft hailed from a lineage of elves. "Lord Francis would never buy his way through the ranks. And how would you know how he was appointed? You're an American, are you not?"

Adrian lifted his gaze from the chart, refusing to take her bait. "And how well do you know your future husband?" The slats creaked when he leaned back in his chair and regarded her coolly. "I wager you have penned no more than a handful of letters, maybe less. Am I mistaken?"

Her chin lifted. "I don't believe you."

"You don't need to trouble yourself with the truth. You only need to do my bidding."

"Somebody will be troubled and come looking for me."

"That may be, but they'll face a hell of a task to capture me. In the meantime, you will remain by my side until I get what I want."

"And pray, what is that? Lord Francis's head on a platter?"

A lovely image, indeed. "All you need to know is that Ashcroft deserves all the damnation I can bring upon him."

"Including capturing and ruining his innocent betrothed?"

He slammed the quill down on the chart and jolted from his chair. Despite her brave words, she backed away and crashed into the stern ledge when he closed in on her.

She had a mutinous temper, yet part of him couldn't help but respect her courage. "How sweet would that revenge be, corrupting the bride of my worst enemy?"

"You wouldn't dare!" Her eyes clung to him, and he could sense the tremors lacing her breath.

He supported himself with one arm on the glass behind her, crowding her against the window, and leaned in until a few loose hairs of her hair caught in his stubble. "No? You reckon I would forgo the opportunity to deliver Ashcroft the damaged goods?"

"You said you'd rather kiss a viper."

"For pleasure, yes. To satisfy my need for revenge, I'd do anything. Anything ."

Thumping strides approached in the companionway, followed by a sharp rap at the door.

"Not now!" he barked, not taking his eyes off her bottomless eyes, her delicate nose, and her lush lips.

Her shallow puffs of air tickled his jaw, fusing with his trembling breath. The subtle whiff of blossom still lingered on her skin, and for a moment, he allowed himself to be embraced by her scent—until she lifted her chin and pierced her eyes in his.

"And yet, you haven't."

The rap on the door repeated, more insistent this time. "Captain?"

"What?" he barked at the door.

"We have confirmed the identity of the pursuer," Matheson briefed through the thin veneer. "She is British."