Clarinda was proved wrong with her very next breath when thunder boomed down from the clear blue sky. She and Poppy barely had time to turn their bewildered glances toward its cloudless vault before something struck the water in front of the ship with a tremendous splash, drenching them both in chill salt spray.
“What in the devil … ?” Clarinda muttered, thankful she hadn’t yet given up cursing in preparation for her new station in life.
Before she could mop the water from her eyes, another boom sounded, followed by a deafening crack from behind them. They whirled around just in time to see the towering mainmast of the ship begin to topple sideways like a felled tree, its mighty trunk splintered by the deadly weight of a cannonball. Clarinda was vaguely aware of Poppy’s fingernails biting into the tender skin of her forearm, but all she could do was watch in helpless horror as what looked like acres of sail came billowing down to bury the deck in a canvas shroud.
They were forced to let go of each other and grasp the rail behind them as the ship lurched to the left, its forward momentum demolished along with its mainmast. Hoarse shouts assailed their ears, underscored by the high-pitched keening of some poor soul in agonizing pain. Sailors came pouring across the deck from every direction, some bearing buckets of water, others dropping to their knees to beat at the smoldering topsail with their bare hands.
As the vessel began to list in a stomach-churning circle, effectively crippled by that one deadly blow, a young lieutenant came racing toward them from the aftercastle of the ship. “Please, ladies, you must get belowdecks immediately! We’re under attack!”
“Attack?” Clarinda echoed, his frantic words only deepening her confusion. As far as she knew, there was no one left to attack them. Since the final defeat of Napoléon’s navy, most of England’s enemies had been routed and subdued, if not by sword and cannon, then by various treaties. No one had dared to challenge England’s supremacy on the high seas in nearly two decades.
The sailor stumbled to a halt in front of them and snatched off his bicorne hat, remembering his manners even at such a trying time. “I’m afraid it’s pirates, miss.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he made a valiant attempt to swallow his own terror. “Corsairs.”
Poppy gasped. One had only to whisper that name to strike terror in the heart of even the most courageous of souls. Parents had been using it to chasten generations of rebellious children, whispering in their little ears that the notorious pirates would come and snatch them from their beds in the dead of night if they failed to recite their evening prayers or eat every last spoonful of their porridge.
The Corsairs had always been notorious for prowling the Mediterranean waters. They would sack every ship they encountered for its booty, none so valuable as the women they captured and sold at the barbarian slave markets in North Africa and Arabia.
And those were the lucky ones.
“I don’t understand.” Clarinda clenched her teeth to still their sudden chattering. “I thought the French subdued the Corsairs when they conquered Algiers.”
“Most of them did surrender at that time. But that only made the ones who refused more desperate and ruthless.” The lieutenant darted a glance at the growing chaos behind him. “Please, miss, we haven’t much time to get you the two of you out of harm’s way.” His voice cracked, betraying both his youth and how near he was to succumbing to panic himself. “If they board us …”
There was no need for him to finish. Nor did Clarinda have the heart to point out that if the Corsairs succeeded in boarding the ship, there would be nowhere she and Poppy—or any of the other women on the ship, including the captain’s wife and their own maids—could hide to escape the pirates’ brutal clutches.
She closed her fingers around Poppy’s trembling hand, dredging up a reassuring smile from the reserves of her faltering courage. “Come, my dear. It seems we’re about to embark upon a much grander adventure than we anticipated.”
The lieutenant drew his pistol and started back across the deck, gesturing for them to follow. They raced after him, hand in hand like two frightened little girls. They were halfway to the narrow passageway that would carry them deep into the tenuous safety of the hold when Clarinda stumbled to a halt.
Giving Poppy an apologetic look, she wrenched her hand free and went flying back across the deck.
“Clarinda!” Poppy screamed, terror ripening in her voice.
“What are you doing?”
“Proving myself a sentimental fool,” Clarinda muttered under her breath.
The scandal sheet still lay beside the chair where Poppy had so carelessly tossed it. As Clarinda snatched up the page with the likeness of Captain Burke sketched upon it, a round of pistol fire erupted from somewhere on the ship, followed by the ringing clash of steel against steel.
She wheeled around and went racing back to her friend’s side, yanking the breathless Poppy into a dead run to make up for every step of the ground they had lost. She had no intention of letting anyone else suffer for her folly. The lieutenant had just wrenched open the hatch and was frantically waving them toward the shadowy mouth of the passageway. They had nearly reached him when his expression underwent a startling transformation.
His mouth went slack. He gave Clarinda a bewildered look, as if someone had made a joke at his expense that he didn’t quite comprehend.
Then he slowly lowered his gaze to his chest.
That was when Clarinda saw the tip of the silvery blade protruding from the center of it.
Poppy let out a bloodcurdling scream. As the lieutenant pitched forward, Clarinda started toward him, instinctively trying to break his fall. But as she reached for him, that same long, curved blade was wrenched from his back and brandished in their direction. The lieutenant collapsed to the deck in a bloody heap, leaving the two of them all alone to face half a dozen men armed with pistols and scimitars. Their turbans and flowing robes were already spattered with blood, little of it their own.
Her breath shortening to terrified pants, Clarinda began to back away from them, dragging the paralyzed Poppy along with her. She gave the ill-fated young lieutenant one last look, but from the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and the mist already claiming his eyes, clearly he was beyond anyone’s help. He looked even younger in death than he had in life. Clarinda’s savage regret that she hadn’t at least been allowed to cradle his head in her lap as he died coalesced into a fierce urge to protect and survive.
Thrusting Poppy behind her, she reached up to the brim of her hat and whipped out the only weapon at her disposal. She thrust the pearltipped hatpin toward the advancing men. “Stay away from us, you miserable brigands. Or I’ll run you through, I will!”
The men might not have understood her words, but there was no mistaking the murderous look in her eye. The hulking giant gripping the bloody scimitar glanced from the long, curved blade of that weapon to the slender needle gripped in Clarinda’s white-knuckled hand.
His olive-skinned face split in a grin, revealing several dazzling white teeth and one gleaming gold one placed squarely in the center of his mouth. He threw back his head with a bellow of laughter. The other men were quick to join in, making it clear the joke was at Clarinda’s expense.
When the man spoke, his voice was a hearty boom, but his English was as sound as her own. “’Twould be a shame to skewer a creature with such spirit. She’ll fetch a pretty price at market.” He looked her up and down, the assessing gleam in his eyes making her feel as if she were already standing naked and shivering on some slaver’s block. “There are many men in this world who would pay a king’s ransom just for the pleasure of breaking her.”
At that moment a gust of wind snatched the hat from Clarinda’s head. Her hair came tumbling out of its combs and around her shoulders in a spill of wheaten silk.
The Corsairs breathed an appreciative chorus of oohs and aahs. A man with the face of a malnourished weasel and two broken and blackened front teeth actually stretched out a hand as if to touch her hair, his eyes glazed and his jaw slack with longing. Before his dirt-encrusted fingertips could brush a single strand, Clarinda jabbed the hatpin deep into the tender pad between his thumb and forefinger.
Letting out a howl, the pirate drew back his wounded hand as if to backhand her. The giant gave him a casual cuff, laying him out flat on the deck with no more effort than it would have taken for an ordinary man to swat a gnat.
“Keep your filthy paws to yourself,” the giant growled. “I do not want any marks on the merchandise.”
The tender smile he turned on Clarinda was even more terrifying than his snarl. Deprived of her meager weapon, she began to back away from him once again with Poppy still clinging to her back like a barnacle.
The hitch of a sob in her friend’s breath echoed her own growing despair. “Oh, if only Captain Sir Ashton Burke was here!” Poppy moaned. “I just know such a man could save us!”
As the half circle of pirates advanced on them, their swarthy faces still glistening with the sweat of battle and their dark eyes gleaming with a chilling combination of lust and bloodlust, an even more violent gust of wind tore Captain Burke’s likeness from Clarinda’s numb fingers. The sketch went sailing over the ship’s rail, borne away on the wings of the wind.
“That’s the problem with heroes, Poppy,” she said grimly. “There’s never one around when you need one.”
N
o woman was worth dying for.
That creed had kept Ashton Burke alive for more than nine years. It had inspired him to dodge the lethal points of countless bayonets when he was fighting for his men and his country in the blinding monsoons of Burma. It had strengthened his steps when he was using a machete to hack his way through the jungles of India, where the air was so heavy and thick it coiled around a man’s chest like a python intent upon squeezing the last breath of air from his lungs. It had kept him in the saddle for endless hours as he drove his horse across stinging sands through the deserts of North Africa, pursued by tribes of bedouin warlords howling for his blood and for whatever priceless antiquity he had liberated from their own greedy clutches.
No woman was worth dying for.
Unfortunately, the firing squad he was facing had other notions. As did the irate husband who had ordered his execution.
He gazed down the breech-loaded barrels of a dozen muskets, assailed by a memory of midnight-black hair cascading over skin perfumed with jasmine and myrrh, inviting brown eyes lined in a kohl that accentuated their exotic tilt, lush lips that were the color of cinnamon but tasted of honey and ripe pomegranates.
Perhaps both the firing squad and the husband were right. Perhaps some women
were
worth dying for.
But strangely enough, when they came to slip the blindfold over his eyes, shielding them from the harsh desert sun, it wasn’t those exotic eyes or lush lips he saw. Instead, it was green eyes the color of spring clover and a pink upper lip that was nearly as full as the lower—its delectable softness tempting a man to lean down and give it a gentle nip.
As he drew in what was sure to be one of his final breaths, it wasn’t the seductive aroma of jasmine and myrrh that flooded his lungs, but a teasing hint of lily of the valley, as clean and tender as blooms nestled in the last snowfall of winter. It was the scent of all the things he hadn’t allowed himself to yearn for since embracing his self-imposed exile. It was the scent of England, the scent of home … the scent of
her
.
He’d spent nearly a decade studiously avoiding any thought of her, but it seemed she’d been lying in wait for him all along, anticipating the moment when he’d be stripped of all his defenses.
A mocking smile curved his lips, making his executioners mutter nervously among themselves as they awaited the command to fire. His reputation for daring escapes had obviously preceded him. This wasn’t exactly the first time he’d faced death. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time he’d faced a firing squad.
What they could not know was that his smile did not mock them but himself. Perhaps it was only fitting she would be haunting him in these final moments of his life. Soon enough he would be haunting her. He’d be damned—and he might well be, given the alarming number of Commandments he’d broken just in the past fortnight—if he’d go to his eternal resting place without paying her one last visit.
He could almost see himself melting out of the moonlight to materialize as a misty vapor over her bed. He could see the wheaten silk of her unbound hair spilling across the pillow, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts beneath the bodice of some ridiculously virginal nightgown. He would cover her, leaning down to steal one last kiss from her parted lips as he filled all of her empty places with his essence. She would awaken in the morning, aching with longing, but remembering nothing more than the dream of a man who had once loved her not only with his body, but with his soul.
A guttural command followed by the sound of a dozen muskets being cocked in unison snapped him out of his reverie.
It seemed he wasn’t even going to be offered a final smoke or a chance to make peace with his Maker. He would die here in Morocco—a stranger in a foreign land with no one to mourn him, no one to weep over his bloodied body. When word of his ignoble death reached England, as it inevitably would, he had no doubt his parents would sigh their disappointment, while his older brother shouldered the burden of the scandal with his usual stoic reserve. Chin up and all that rot.
But what about her?
Would she express shock and convey her polite condolences, then sob softly into her handkerchief when she believed no one was looking? Would she wake in the night shivering with regret over all of the opportunities lost, all of the moments squandered, all of the nights they’d never shared?
He snorted. She was far more likely to dance a merry jig on his grave than shed a single tear on his behalf.
He squared his shoulders and tossed back his head, bracing himself for what was to come. He had always known deep in his heart that he would one day die a scoundrel, not a hero. But he would at least die with the satisfaction of knowing she would never suspect her name had been the last word on his lips.