Chapter 6

Adrian slammed the door to the great cabin shut behind him.

That little vixen!

He ran his fingertips along the wetness beneath his jaw. Half an inch lower, and she would have done irreparable damage.

How fucking stupid he had been, allowing her to surprise him like that. She had already demonstrated her disregard for his authority in front of his crew. He should have known to expect anything from her.

She defended herself. She had every right to.

Against his will, he had to give her credit for standing up for herself. She was scared and feared for her life, and still, she had outsmarted him.

He could already feel the premonition prickle in his bones. Taking Miss Hawthorn for ransom would give him a lot more trouble than he had anticipated and in more than one way. Not only was she dangerous enough to warrant his constant vigilance, but she was also a temptation for sailors deprived of female company.

A woman like her had the power to stir up strife on board, and the last thing he needed was a brawl among his crew.

She is your enemy's betrothed.

He tried to push away the picture of those large eyes watching him, of her pulse pounding against his hand, but they forced their way around his mind like a boasting victory dance. A vague recollection of a wounded bird he had once encountered fluttered in his mind; enormous eyes begging for mercy but knowing they wouldn't find any.

The sweet floral scent he had picked up when he carried her aboard the Ranger taunted him. The realization of his reaction to her, his worst enemy's betrothed, made his fists ball, but he shook off the images.

"Hell!"

He stomped along the companionway and into the galley. Two large pots of steaming stew sat on the brick oven, spreading a tantalizing whiff of lamb through the muggy air. Nets laden with food dangled from the ceiling, forming a garland of provisions on every wall.

"Capt'n." Freddie paused the wielding of the knife and greeted him with a fleeting look, but then he caught sight of his captain's bloody throat, and his sturdy body froze. "Well, blow me down! Be ye all right, Capt'n?"

"Yes," Adrian grunted and snatched a cloth hanging on a nail on the wall.

Goddamn hellcat!

"Do ye need me to have a gander at that?" The beaming flames from the stove reflected on Freddie's bald head, making it look like a fiery orb.

Adrian dipped the cloth in the water tun and wiped his throat. "No, it's just a small gash."

"That be not so wee, Capt'n. How in Davy Jones's locker did ye…" Freddie's eyes darted past Adrian to the companionway and widened like two dark abysses.

Adrian sent him a hard look. "Make sure the woman doesn't get her hands on anything that resembles a weapon."

"A-aye, Capt'n." Freddie nodded with such vigor that the thick golden hoops in his ears danced. "Be ye sure ye don't want me to–"

"No, I don't want you to!" Adrian dabbed his throat with the damp cloth and stemmed the dripping blood.

"Aye… then."

The chopping resumed, albeit slow and hesitant, as if an afterthought.

Adrian sighed. "What?"

"It's just that"—Freddie flailed his arms in the air, including the very sharp meat cleaver, and Adrian took a step back—"a wench on board a ship, and now this ?"

The meat cleaver pointed at Adrian's throat as if challenging him to a duel.

"I was careless, that's all."

"Nay, believe ye, that slash ain't no careless accident." Freddie pursed his lips, twisting the thick scar running from his eyebrow across his temple. "A bad omen, methinks."

"No reason to get superstitious." Adrian tossed the rag in with the dirty dishes.

Freddie shook his head. "An omen, that be how it be. A black spot on our voyage."

"We'll be fine. Don't worry." With an annoyed eye roll, Adrian retreated to the companionway and ascended the ladder to the main deck.

He wasn't apprehensive but wished he'd had a stronger sense of certainty when he reassured Freddie they would be fine with Miss Hawthorn on board.

"Evening, Cap…" Kinsley gazed with horror at the wound skimming close to the fatal point on his captain's throat. "…tain."

"Kinsley." Adrian acknowledged his sailing master with a grunt, but when the young man didn't continue, and his mouth hung open as if he had seen a ghost, he felt most of all like slapping the flabbergasted look off the young man's face. "Well, move on, then!"

"Aye, Capt'n." Kinsley knuckled his forehead and scrambled belowdecks with such haste that his boots slid the rungs of the ladder with a clattering sound.

"Oof!" came the stifled cry from the darkness below.

In the normal run of things, Adrian would have reprimanded Kinsley for risking a broken limb or worse, but tonight wasn't normal. He inhaled the cool evening air to soothe his temper and climbed to the quarterdeck where his lieutenant commanded the helm.

"Good evening, Captain."

The salty spray stung Adrian's cut, and he muttered a profanity at the woman belowdecks. "Evening. Status report?"

The black ocean cradled the Ranger , propelling her forward beneath the whipping sails.

"Welsh is in the nest; there have been no sightings since the Chirton disappeared, and there are no reports from the junior officers."

Adrian acknowledged the report with a nod. "Good. Keep her steady at west-southwest. We should reach Martinique in a short week."

"Aye, Captain." Thomas's look descended to the laceration on Adrian's neck. Unperturbed by his captain's lousy mood, he delved into the possible reasons for this recent injury. "Did you gash yourself while shaving?"

Adrian sent his lieutenant a dark look that would discourage greater men from pursuing their case, but after sailing under Adrian for ten years and under Adrian's father for twenty years before that, Thomas nursed no such concerns.

"A woman on board means only one thing: trouble in any cursed way."

Adrian clicked his tongue. "Spare me that superstitious nonsense. Freddie complained about the same thing."

"Ain't no superstition." Thomas didn't lose a beat as he scanned the darkening horizon with a trained eye. A thin band of pale blue separated the blackness of the sea and the darkening sky, just enough to reveal the faintest silhouette of another ship, should there be one. "By taking the woman prisoner, you've plunged yourself right into a calamity that'll be the ruin of both you and her. That slash, heed my words, is the evidence of that."

"It is but a small cut."

"I'm not speaking of the gash, but the whole damn navy chasing us down before long. You're putting the whole crew at risk for your grudge against Ashcroft. We didn't smuggle you out of Newgate so you could serve yourself up to the English on a silver platter."

Adrian lifted his boot onto the binnacle platform. "Let them come. I'm not afraid of the British."

Thomas said nothing for a long while. "Mayhap, but they are not to be taken lightly, and neither is Ashcroft. You'll need to keep an eye on your stern, or they'll stick a blade in your back before you know what hit you."

"You know I had to."

Thomas sighed. "I know you, son. I know your hunger for revenge as I know my own pouch, but she is blameless. Ashcroft is your enemy. Ashcroft ruined your life, though you were innocent. Now you're doing the same to her."

The accusing tone from his lieutenant tore at Adrian's already shredded patience.

Despite raising her chin in defiance, Miss Hawthorn's midnight blue eyes had betrayed her, and now that frightened look lingered in his thoughts like barnacles clinging to the keel.

His fists curled.

She might not have anything to do with Ashcroft's past atrocities, but by marrying Adrian's worst enemy, she as well became his enemy.

And that made her the perfect leverage, a pawn in his quest for revenge—the blade to ruin Ashcroft.

But no matter how many convincing arguments Adrian lined up in his head, the image of Miss Hawthorn's frightened but accusing eyes refused to be pushed away.

Dammit!

"Asides," Thomas continued when Adrian didn't offer a response, "that kind of lass will meddle with the crew's heads."

"Nobody touches her!" The words burst out with fierce intensity, and he surprised both Thomas and himself with his intense reaction.

She had turned out to be nothing like he had imagined. A beautiful woman with exquisite female curves, intelligence, a hell of a courage, and a tongue sharp as his razor—all elements he had failed to consider when devising his plan.

Thomas was right about one thing, though. Miss Hawthorn would probably cause upheaval among his sailors.

"Your crew is a wild lot," Thomas continued. "You must crack the whip, or they'll turn on you. That'll be the end of your days. And hers."

"You're dismissed," Adrian grunted. The gash on his neck throbbed like a bitch, fueled by the steady wall of sea mist spraying over the deck.

Thomas watched him for a moment longer than Adrian had patience for, but then his lieutenant nodded. "As you command, Captain."

His lieutenant descended the ladder and disappeared down the hatch.

"Hell!" Adrian clenched his fists and kicked the tun of drinking water, sending it flying across the deck where it shattered into wooden splinters against the railing.

He owed Thomas his life, and he regretted putting him at risk, but the hate Adrian harbored for Ashcroft was like venom coursing through his veins, impossible to drain and slowly consuming him from the inside.

"Matheson," he called to the sailor passing below. "Take the helm."

"Aye, Capt'n," his helmsman acknowledged.

Adrian strode across the deck to the bow. He followed the lazy rise and fall of the bowsprit against the dark swells, a bowsprit designed with more length and sleekness than necessary for sailing to provoke intimidation in his enemies.

The pale moonlight reflected off the rippling caps of the waves like a thousand shiny silver coins tossed into the sea.

He couldn't think of anything more calming to his soul than to be ondecks at night. Alone beneath the immense dome of darkness sprinkled with countless twinkling diamonds of ancient constellations, soothed by the wind singing in the tackles and the murmuring of waves breaking the vast silence.

Adrian inhaled, tasting the briny freshness of the night. If it hadn't been for Thomas, he wouldn't have been able to enjoy the freedom of the sea. His thoughts returned to Miss Hawthorn.

He could still feel the softness of her body as he had carried her from the Chirton , still feel the slender waist and the female curving of her hips and her breasts pressing against his back.

He could still smell the tantalizing scent of cherry blossoms infused with a hint of sun-warmed and salty skin.

He could still feel the pulse on her neck race beneath his fingers—the pulse he could have snuffed out like a candle had he applied more pressure.

Ashcroft's betrothed.

His thoughts drifted to the life he had once had, one far from the suffocating threat of the English noose and to the remains of the Hainsworth family. Their properties had been seized and forfeited by the crown Adrian had once served, and his family had been forced to leave their country for reasons they had no control over.

Because of Ashcroft.

He felt a chilly shiver of recollection in his soul.

Cold stone walls, damp air, the stench of mold, sewer, blood, and death—and an excruciating torment.

"Again!"

A burning pain shot through his body, coiling hot and sticky in his abdomen, threatening to churn his insides out and leave them in a bloody mess on the dirty ground.

"Again!"

The dull voice behind him echoed in his head, and then another strike of the devil's tail flayed across his back, shredding his mauled skin to bloody bits and pieces.

Adrian gritted his teeth with such force the stale taste of blood filled his mouth. His hands clamped into rock-hard fists above the chains, the only thing holding his limp body upright.

"Again!"

Sweat ran down his temple, flowing along the creaks and wrinkles of burning agony, the stench of himself mixing with the smell of blood and the always-present London smoke that not even the cold December rain could quench.

Lash after lash seared across the raw flesh on his back and shoulders, digging into his muscles, gnawing at his tendons, at his mind, eating away at his sanity.

"Capt'n?"

His stomach rolled, his throat burned with a tortured scream, and then his vision hazed, reducing the cold stone walls of Newgate to an indistinct gray mass at the end of a tunnel before the painless dark engulfed him.

"Captain Hainsworth?"

Scott's cautious voice broke through Adrian's recollections.

"What?" he barked, piercing his eyes at his boatswain, who cowered at the captain's aggressive response.

"R-reporting for duty, Captain."

The sharp and resonant sound of the ship's bell shattered the night with a rhythmic cadence. Eight bells.

Damn!