Читать книгу My Wicked Pirate - Rona Sharon - Страница 10

Eros leaned forward in his chair, emerging from shadow into candlelight. He selected a red flower from the vase on the dinner table and tossed it into her lap. “A flower for your thought.”

Alanis missed a heartbeat seeing his tanned, patrician face accentuated by the soft glow of the flame. She could no longer deny she took pleasure in his attentions. For the first time in her life she appreciated the power of femininity. Here was a man whom most of the world feared, but he endeavored to amuse her, to find favor in her eyes. Since their first lunch together the day before, he had become seamlessly amiable and courteous, behaving as a perfect gentleman. Yet despite his efforts, she wasn’t entirely fooled: Eros was a predator—quiet, elegant, and lethal.

Absentmindedly she twirled the gilded lock arranged to fall over her exposed shoulder. “It would cost more than a flower to purchase my thought.”

“Then perhaps the Malaga wine will do the trick. As the saying goes, ‘In vino veritas’.” He refilled their glasses, his amused expression spiced with blatant masculine interest.

Alanis didn’t fail to detect his appreciation of her low-cut bodice. His eyes were caressing her all evening. She pressed the wineglass to her warm cheek. “I had a different price in mind…”

A jet eyebrow lifted. “By all means, state your price. I’m in a venturesome frame of mind.”

She took a sip of wine. “I was wondering about this person you’re here to rescue.”

He grinned. “You were? What would you like to know about her?”

A woman. Alanis’s humor blackened. His mistress, no doubt. “Well, what is her name?”

Eros analyzed her well-bred smile. “Gelsomina,” he replied. “Now tell me your thought.”

She glanced at the scarlet petals nestling in her lap. “I was thinking of my fiancé.”

“Ah.” His smile frosted. “Already anxious to be gone from my company.” He selected an orange off the silver fruit bowl, and using his dagger instead of a table knife, he slashed the skin.

“Silverlake is not informed of my pending arrival. I intend to surprise him.”

“You will,” he stated enigmatically. “Nevertheless, he should be grateful you ventured out to sea during wartime just to pay him a visit. Few women would brave the danger.”

Alanis decided she didn’t care to discuss Lucas anymore. She’d much rather interrogate her host. “Why do you target fleets? The risk is ten times greater, while the profit is very small.”

“The immediate profit means little to me. I target French ships, navy and royal commercial lines alike, because they are Louis’s strongest suit.”

“You are fighting the French?” she asked incredulously.

He seemed amused by her reaction. “As you well know, the Continent, the high seas, and the Americas are in a state of war. One cannot live in the world and not partake of it. Personally I do not entertain an aspiration to the Spanish crown, but I find Philip’s claim unacceptable. Louis cannot be allowed to control two-thirds of the Western world’s power and resources.”

“This is admirable,” she murmured. It put Eros on their side. “But why should you single-handedly pit yourself against Philip’s all-powerful grandfather, the Sun King, when you may join the Grand Alliance? Louis XIV has the means to crush a single man effortlessly.”

He smiled. “I don’t think the Allies will have me, and I am determined not to have them.”

The man was a constant surprise. “You must be very brave…or very mad.”

“Even the brave fall lured into fool traps and dupe themselves with high and noble ideals.” Sustaining her gaze, he reached across the table and caught her hand. “I intrigue you, don’t I?” he whispered. “Should we try to corrupt Silverlake with gold after all?”

Her heart flip-flopped. Slowly she pulled her hand free. “I have no idea why we should.”

“I think you do, Amore. I think we understand each other very well.”

The tension between them became too much for her, and she averted her gaze to the silvery trail of light washing the open sea.

“Allow me to tell you a story, then,” he suggested. When he had her attention, he cleared his throat. “There was once in Pisa a rich judge, more endowed with intellect than with bodily strength, whose name was Messer Ricardo. But perhaps he was lacking in wits as well, for he shared the stupidity of other men who assume that while they travel the world, taking their pleasure first with one woman and then with another, their ladies at home are twiddling their thumbs. Allora, our good judge, because he was rich and prominent and believed he could satisfy a wife with the same sort of work he performed in his studies, he began searching for a woman possessed of both beauty and youth. His quest was surprisingly successful—Pisa is a town where most women resemble gecko lizards—and he married Bartolomea, the most charming young lady. With great festivity he brought his new wife into his home, but as he was a frail, wizened sort of man, he accomplished only one go at his wife on their wedding night, barely staying in the game for this one round, and found he had to drink lots of Vernaccia wine, eat restorative confections, and use a number of other aids to get back on his feet the next day.”

Eros finished his wine, enjoying Alanis’s slack-jawed expression. “Now this judge fellow, having formed an accurate estimate of his forces, resolved to teach his wife the calendar, namely, the days out of respect for which men and women should abstain from sexual coupling. Allora, there were the fast days,” he counted his fingers, “the four Ember weeks, the eves of the Apostles, and a thousand other saints. Fridays, Saturdays, the Sunday of our Lord, every day of Lent, certain phases of the moon, and many other exceptions, thinking that one takes as long a respite from making love to a woman as one does from pleading a case in court.”

She stared at him in shock. Yet even more shocking was the strange thrill she felt. “Well?”

“Our good judge continued in this fashion for some time, not without serious ill humor on his lady’s part. One day during the hot summer, he decided to go sailing and fishing on the coast of his lovely estate near Monte Nero, where he could enjoy the fresh air. Having taken one boat for himself, he installed his lady and her ladies on another. The fishing excursion was delightful, and so caught up with his amusement, he failed to notice that his lady’s boat drifted to sea. When all of a sudden,” he paused dramatically, “appeared a galley commanded by Paganino da Mare, a famous pirate of his time. He caught the ship sailing with the ladies, and no sooner did he see Bartolomea than he desired only her. He decided to keep her, and since she was weeping bitterly, he consoled her tenderly, with words during the day, and when night came…with deeds. For he didn’t think by calendars or pay any attention to holidays or working days.”

Acutely aware of the fast beat of her heart, she inquired softly, “What did our judge do?”

“Having witnessed the abduction he was sorely distressed, being the kind who is jealous of the air surrounding his lady. To no avail he went about Pisa, lamenting the wickedness of pirates, although he had no idea who had taken his wife or where she had been carried off to.”

“And Lady Bartolomea?” Alanis prompted.

“Lost all recollection of the judge and his laws. With great joy she lived with Paganino, who provided consolations day and night and honored her as though she were his wife.”

She blinked. “That’s it? The end? Her husband forgot about her?”

“No. Sometime later, Ricardo heard of his wife’s whereabouts. He met with Paganino and artfully befriended the pirate. He then revealed his reason for coming and implored Paganino to take any sum of money for the return of his lady.”

“And, of course, Paganino agreed,” Alanis retorted, stabbing the dark pagan in front of her with an angry look. “For why should he regard her feelings when there’s gold to be earned?”

“Paganino did not agree,” Eros stressed. “Out of respect for her, he said to Messer Ricardo, ‘I will take you to her and if she wishes to leave with you, then you may state the ransom price yourself. However,’” his voice thickened, “‘if this is not the case, you’d do me a great wrong to take her from me, for she is the loveliest, most desirable, heart-robbing woman I…’”

Heat surged through Alanis. “What was Bartolomea’s reply?” she hastened to inquire.

“What would yours be, Alanis?”

She hadn’t realized just how devious he was until now. The point of the story wasn’t to tell her what would or would not happen, it was to open her mind to possibilities, to choices, to the strange twists of fate…. “The husband had little to commend him and Paganino was mercenary. He did not truly love her if he was willing to accept gold as compensation for a broken heart.”

“And if Paganino were to refuse the gold?” Eros prompted in a low, tempting voice. “You chose neither man, Alanis.”

She looked away. “Pray finish this silly tale you’ve concocted—”

“I didn’t.” He smiled. “Giovanni Boccaccio who lived in Florence ages ago did, to amuse his remaining friends when the Black Death ravaged Italy. But since you’ve asked so graciously, I’ll tell you the end. The lady said to her husband, ‘Since I happened upon this man with whom I share this room where the door is shut on Saturdays, Fridays, vigils, and the four days of Ember or Lent, and here work goes on day and night, I can tell you that if you gave as many holidays to the laborers on your estates as you did the man who was supposed to work my small field, you would not have harvested a single grain. But as God, a considerate observer of my youth, willed it, my luck has changed. I mean to stay with Paganino and work while I’m still young and save the indulgences and the fasts for when I’m older. As for you, go celebrate as many holidays as you wish, for if I squeezed you all over, you couldn’t come up with even a thimble of juice.’”

Blushing furiously, Alanis bit her lip. “Not very admirable for a married lady, was it?”

“The lady preferred her lover.”

“Do you think so little of the sanctity of marriage, then?” she inquired.

An angry spark lit his eyes. “On the contrary,” he rasped softly. “I bear the highest respect for the sacred vows of matrimony, but I’m not that much of a fool to enter this snare. Indulging in adultery is a common diversion for highborn married ladies.”

“So you prefer assuming the role of the corruptor?”

“One can only corrupt she who wishes to be corrupted.”

Interesting, she thought. Judging by his reaction, she suspected he’d been cuckolded once.

“Who is Tom, Alanis?”

His question took her completely by surprise. “What? How…who told you about him?”

“You did.” He produced a suspiciously familiar journal from his coat pocket, flipped open the cover, and read, “‘To my dearest Tom, who has the best place in my heart. I miss your sweet face and everything wonderful about you. As I bathe in sunlight, I recall idle days spent together on the banks of…’ Your tears blurred the following lines.” He glared at her reproachfully.

“My voyage journal!” Furious, she leaned over the table to snatch it from his hand, but he held it well out of her reach. “Give it back! It’s private and you stole it!”

“My dear lady,” he snarled. “Your journal puts Ovidius’s The Art of Love to shame.”

“How dare you! Ovid’s book is…indecent. My journal isn’t…” She pursed her lips. “You had the gall to read something private and you expect me to explain it? Where did you find it?”

“My men brought it to me. They found it in your cabin while clearing away the trunks.”

“You ransacked my cabin?” Her eyes rounded in disbelief. “What were you hoping to unearth—secret missives forwarded to the French?”

“It was a mix-up. So who is he, Alanis? Your lover?” he demanded.

Her silent smile infuriated him even more; he seemed to take it as an admission of guilt.

“Poor Silverlake,” he bit out. “A cuckold and not even married yet. And gullible me, here I thought you were an innocent little baggage, too pure to sully with my gory, wicked hands. You don’t deserve the respect a professional courtesan does!”

The passionate resentment simmering in his eyes made her laugh. “One would think you were the one being cuckolded and not your enemy. Don’t you find it absurd? Or perhaps you are jealous? Does it pain you to think me in love with another although you are not my betrothed?”

“I thank the Good Lord I’m not your betrothed,” he muttered crossly. “I should give this to him, though, enlighten him as to the true nature of his bride to be.”

“Please do.” She laughed at his shocked expression. “You’ve no idea how silly you look, considering that…Tom is my brother.”

That decked him. “Your brother?” He slowly slid the journal across the table.

She took it. “Tom is my younger brother. He died five years ago in a foolish, tragic duel.”

Eros looked dully rueful. “My condolences. He was your only sibling? And your parents?”

“They died when I was twelve. My grandfather took us in.” Why was she telling this pirate her entire life story? The answer eluded her.

“Must have been lonely,” he remarked, his eyes not leaving her face.

“Not lonely. Alone. But I had Tom and Lucas when they were home away from school.”

“Silverlake was acquainted with your brother?”

“They were famous friends. So you may imagine how idiotic you’d look presenting this bit of incriminating evidence of my infidelity to Silverlake.” She smiled.

He stirred uncomfortably. “I never intended to. I apologize. Please forgive my rudeness.”

“I forgive your rudeness. I do not forgive your reading my private journal! You had no right to snoop! You should have returned it once you realized the error.”

“Perhaps I should have contained my curiosity,” he admitted, not without a visible toll on his pride. “I’m willing to make it up to you. Tell me how.”

She eyed him circumspectly. “Excuse me from dining with you tomorrow.” Their last day.

Eros tensed. “No.”

“You cannot choose the reparation that pleases you,” she muttered.

“Ask for something else.”

She considered the implacable set of his jaw, the resolute glint in his eyes. “No.”

Annoyance crossed his features. “D’ accordo. Va bene. You’ll have your wish.”

“Thank you.” The less time spent in this ruthlessly appealing Italian’s company the better, she told herself.

“Your grandfather seems very soft when it comes to his granddaughter,” he remarked after long moments of silence. “Does he know you read Ovid?”

The reason she was familiar with the Roman poet’s works was her grandfather’s eccentric views on female education. No refined English lady was allowed to read what she did. “You read Ovid. Why shouldn’t I?” she pointed out tersely, annoyed that her cheeks were on fire again.

“Why indeed?” Eros grinned. “When the reason men prohibit women from improving their education stems from fear and stupidity? Women already wield so much power over us poor males, we are terrified that once you know everything, you’d have us completely at your mercy.”

His comment quelled her belligerence, and she found herself smiling again. “I find it hard imagining you brought to your knees by a woman.”

“You’d be surprised.” The dark smile he sent her made her feel tingly all over.

Feeling shy and daring at the same time, she said, “Everything I heard about you concerns stealing, torturing, and murdering. Tell me one thing that is not a vicious rumor.”

“Why do you believe they’re but vicious rumors and not the truth?” he inquired, amused.

Disappointed by his smooth evasion, she replied, “I have had four meals in your company and I have yet to see you gnaw on raw organs or suckle fresh blood.”

Eros burst out laughing, deeply, freely. “Is that what you’ve heard about me? And here you are, snatched from a world of decency and finesse and forced to dine with a cesspit monster.”

“You are not from the gutters. You are exceptionally well educated, your manners—when it suits you—are excellent, your tastes are expensive…”

“Any person with a good eye can have a taste for the better things in life. My not being a viscount”—his hand sketched a flourish—“doesn’t suggest I’m illiterate. Reading is a convenient method to pass time at sea, Carissima.”

His softly spoken Italian endearment thrummed her heart. “It’s more than that,” she said. “It’s the way you carry yourself, it’s—” She searched her brain for the right word. “Princely.”

She could have sworn he flinched, but when he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “You deduced this after two days of observation? Alanis, prince or pauper, good or evil, it matters not in our world. The material point is what destiny has in store for us and what we choose to make of it. I chose my path, because this is what I am. A man whose loyalty lies with himself.”

“And yet you defend the realm against French tyranny,” she pointed out. Softly she recited, “‘bandit, as a lion, who roams the Lebanon. His home a sharp flint, and at the peak of a rock stands a leopard with spots as the keeper of his home, for he is a man of blood, a sorcerer whom even savages will fear.’ You don’t come from a world unlike my own, but you do live in a lonely place.” The vulnerability she perceived in his eyes affected her as much as she evidently affected him. Eros chose his path as retribution against…something, and he seemed to her as caged in the world he created for himself as she was in the one she was born into.

He leaned closer. “You don’t fear me, do you? But you ought to, Alanis. Although you see things others do not, you are too naïve to understand.”

Her voice was a hesitant whisper. “Explain it to me.”

“It’s late.” He rose to his feet and came to assist her out of her chair. “Your maid might put it in her head that I have wronged you abominably and come after me with her lethal tongue.”

Taking his arm, Alanis sensed acute tension throbbing beneath his icy veneer. He would not meet her gaze, so cold and distant he’d become. Her eyes fell on the floor. “My flower.”

He preceded her to it. When he straightened to offer her the stalk, their gazes collided. The transformation in him was swift and entrancing. The hungry look in his eyes, the potent craving he radiated—she saw a wild prowler on a nocturnal hunt, his instincts sharp, and his prey well within reach. They were caught in the moment before the leopard leaped to the kill.

He wanted to kiss her, feminine intuition announced. He would place his lips on hers as no man had done before, not even Lucas Hunter. Her heart beat wildly. Time stretched. She felt his pull so strongly her entire self awaited his kiss…

“Change your mind about dinner tomorrow,” he implored softly.

Disappointed by his sudden withdrawal and angry with herself for feeling this way, Alanis replied pithily, “I should think not. Nothing good will come of it.”

The sun set in the horizon, painting the sky a glorious halo of purple dusk. Tiny islands as surreal as a dream dotted the calm, cerulean surface. A cooler breeze swelled the sails, plucking twilight music over ropes and riggings. Laughter broke the silence. Eros tore his eyes away from the scenery and stabbed Giovanni with an irritated glare. “What are you laughing at?”

Manning the helm, Giovanni glanced at his captain and chuckled. “You. Can’t remember the last time I saw you in such a rut, and all because of a little lady.”

“Stupido.” Eros pushed away from the railing and crossed the quarterdeck toward a case of oranges. He selected a large one and slumped on a crate of ropes. “Haughty virgins are not my type. I cannot wait to be rid of her tomorrow, along with her noisy maid. I swear, I’ve never met a colder female in my entire life. My sympathy is with Silverlake.”

“Mine isn’t, and knowing you as well as I do, I’d say neither is yours. You have a beautiful woman sleeping in your bed, Eros, and the reason you are as sour as this fruit you are addicted to is you are not accustomed to rejection. Why won’t she dine with you tonight?”

“Why don’t you mind the helm instead of asking stupid questions?”

“Va bene. If you don’t want her, and seeing that your plans to fight the French won’t be getting me into any wench’s pantalets in the near future, perhaps I’ll ask Niccolò to stand in for me as I go ask the blond lady if she would take a stroll on deck with me this evening.”

Eros’s temper flared as a trail of gunpowder. “You’ll do no such thing, Giova!”

“Why not?” Giovanni’s one eye rounded innocently. “I’ll behave.”

“I said no.” Eros gnashed his teeth.

Giovanni folded his arms across his chest, looking disgruntled. “When was the last time we had some fun, eh? Do you even remember what a female looks like underneath her petticoats?”

Eros stood. “You’ll get your fun soon enough. Once we retrieve Gelsomina, we’ll stop in Tortuga where you’ll be able to explore under every petticoat roaming the island.”

Giovanni watched Eros stride to a bucket of water to wash his hands. “I like blondes.”

“There are blondes in Tortuga. And this one is not to be harmed. Do I make myself clear?”

“Who said anything about harming?”

“She is not for you, Giovanni,” Eros accentuated ominously. “The discussion is closed.”

Giovanni grinned. “Why can’t you admit that you want her, Eros? Usually when a woman strikes your fancy, you go after her like a bull until you bed her and the boredom begins. What’s special about this one? I know you prefer the experienced type, but if you want her, take her to bed and terminate the agony for the rest of us.”

Eros paused. “She’s not the kind one can simply take.”

Surprise crossed Giovanni’s fearsome features. “She got to you, didn’t she? In all those fancy lunches and dinners she said or did something that flipped you over. What was it?”

“Enough. You’ve made your point. Now get your mind on the wheel before you sink us all.” Eros stalked off the quarterdeck, leaving a very befuddled Giovanni staring behind.

Dinnertime passed and she was still plagued with a rotten feeling. Sitting at the open ports, Alanis stared morosely at the dark sea. Tomorrow she would reunite with Lucas. Why wasn’t she ecstatically happy? She shut her eyes and let her head drop back as a cool night breeze lifted her unbraided hair off her nape. Why did she insist on fooling herself? She knew her affliction’s name; she simply lacked the backbone to admit it. Eros, you wretch. What have you done to me?

The sound of a key entering the lock jumped her. The door opened. Formidable as ever, Eros stood at the threshold. His gaze swept the dim cabin. Betsy was sound asleep on a sofa. His bed was vacant. His gaze veered to the open ports, and her heart nearly plummeted to her feet.

His eyes glittered fiercely. “Put your cloak on,” he whispered. “We’ll talk on deck.”

With trembling fingers she tied the black cape’s ribbons at her neck, stepped into a pair of flats, and came to him. He closed his hand around hers and whisked her out the door.

Not a soul was in sight as she floated after Eros toward the night-shrouded quarterdeck. He positioned her at the rail overlooking the moonlit waters and stopped tall and shadowy in front of her. Untied, his long hair whipped without restraint in the sea breeze. His eyes reflected both yearning and reluctance. He ran his fingers through her long fair tresses, opening them like a fan over her shoulders, then gently cupped her face, murmuring, “Sei bellissima. You are beautiful. How is it possible you’ll be escaping my clutches for the second time?”

Her whole body came alive under his touch. “Where did we meet before?”

His voice was deep and husky. “At a ball in Versailles three years ago. Your gown was the exact color of your hair.”

“Gold brocade,” she recalled with astonishment. “You were at a ball in Versailles?”

“You stood out in a sea of tired faces painted with rouge, white chalk, and false patches. It wasn’t difficult to single you out as you circled the crowds with Madame de Montespan. I know the Madame. At the peak of her career she was Louis’s mistress. I thought you were one of her young protégés. I thought you were a courtesan, Alanis.”

“A courtesan?” She smiled wickedly. A woman of the night. A temptress who brought men to their knees. The opposite of what she encountered in a mirror every day.

“I followed you around, plotting seductions in my head, until an elderly duke and a blond viscount stole you from right under my nose.” He grinned ruefully. “I lost my chance.”

“My grandfather and Lucas,” she concluded with a smile full of wonder.

“They were extremely protective of you, which verified you were an unmarried lady, not a demimondaine. I knew I could never have you. Even if I had begged for an introduction, they would not have allowed it.” His predator eyes gleamed, his teeth flashed sinfully white. “My reputation is not tolerated within a mile of an innocent débutante.”

“Is it that terrible?” she teased. Then she frowned. “Why don’t I remember you?” With his great height and very handsome head he was hardly invisible. “This is all quite astonishing.”

His thumb caressed her soft lips. “You couldn’t see me, Amore. You were guarded well.”

“I see you now,” she whispered, her gaze drawn to his mouth. A dark shadow outlined his upper lip. Her breathing thinned.

“Now you are mine.” He bent his head and brushed his mouth across hers. She stopped breathing altogether. His lips felt soft and warm, and when she didn’t recoil, they lingered, slow, tender, coaxing. She melted inside. Her eyelids sank. She felt his arms stealing inside her cloak, around her waist, pressing her to his torso. His heat, his scent—a musky blend of cognac, fire, and something else, more intoxicating than the sunny air or the salty breeze—tantalized her. Eros kissed her as one enjoyed a scoop of cream—thoroughly, unhurriedly. The tip of his tongue dampened her lips, seducing them to part for him. Though hesitant at first, she complied. Her tongue touched his, and a heady wave of pleasure swamped her. Primal, alien instincts urged her to explore him as unreservedly as he explored her.

Low sounds rose in his throat as her response gathered confidence, and their kiss deepened. His mouth was no longer tame but hot and needful. He tasted her, stroked her, pushed himself deeper inside of her. Their warm breaths mingled, becoming laborious.

“Eros…” She sighed, amazed how this strong, hot-blooded Italian, who only three nights ago had been a terrible enemy to fear and hate, had cast such a spell on her that her entire self responded to his kisses, to the feel of his large body crushing her to him. Nothing had ever come close to how she felt at that moment. She finally understood what it meant to be alive.

Kissing him passionately, Alanis’s hands cruised up along his corded arms, over iron-hard muscles rippling beneath soft linen, and stole beneath the heavy fall of his hair. A profusion of cool silk spilled between her fingers. Ah God! How she ached to know everything about him, to keep him, consume him, engulf him with the warmth gushing from her soul…

Releasing a ragged groan, Eros tore his mouth away and dragged it along the curve of her neck. She was so caught up in the moment, so immersed in his effect on her, she didn’t know how to object to the hand cupping her breast over the thin nightshift. His thumb flicked over her sensitive nipple. A sharp tremor shot through her, shattering the magic. What has she done?

She jerked free, shame and shock rounding her eyes. “What have you done to me?”

Breathing harshly, his lust-glazed eyes met hers. “What have I done to you?” he repeated, not quite grasping the abrupt change in her.

“You ruined me! Get away from me, you ravishing monster!” She pushed at his unmovable chest, frantic to escape him, to escape herself. How could she have lost her head and capitulated to a base fascination for a pirate? How could she have disgraced Lucas, behaving so wantonly?

“Ravishing?” His eyes lit up with a feral glow. He gripped her arms and pinned her to his chest. “I kissed you! And you kissed me back! I didn’t do anything you did not want yourself!”

“I’m to be married to Viscount Silverlake! How could you do this to me?” The damnable blackguard made her want him with every fiber of her being, and now she felt empty and cold.

“Then don’t marry him!” Eros countered resentfully, thwarted by the tears streaming down her face. “Alanis, you wanted this every bit as much as I did. You clung to me as a woman who had never been kissed in her life.”

Smarting with humiliation, she sustained his incensed gaze. He was right on both charges. If he hadn’t kissed her, she would have expired from curiosity and yearning. But for reading her sad inexperience with such careless ease, for making her crave him so wildly, she wanted to tear his beautiful eyes out. “I hate you!” she hissed, mostly because she knew she could never, ever have him.

“You think I’m not good enough for you,” Eros rasped. “Not worthy enough for a princess of your noble birth to lust after. But you did, Alanis. You moaned and purred like a love-starved cat, and if this deck were my bedchamber, I’d have scratches on my back to prove it. One more night onboard my ship, Amore, and you’d beg me to keep you!” He laid into her with all the arrogance of a man who had had more women than he could begin to remember.

Alanis inhaled sharply. Perhaps because he was so close to the truth, or perhaps because he made it sound so cheap, her hand came up and slapped his cheek, all her hurt and fury condensed into one motion. “You—make—me—sick!” she spat vehemently, raw tears stinging her eyes.

Eros stilled, caught unawares by the intensity of her wrath.

Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, she gave his steely chest a forceful shove and fled as fast as her legs carried her, not daring to glance behind her once.

Eros touched his bruised cheek and stared after her as she flew across the deck, blond hair, white muslin, and black cape thrashing as wings in the breeze. When she vanished from sight, he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it hard into the dense wood of the railing. If words had the power to destroy, the guttural stream of Italian invectives torn from his throat would have sunk the entire French Navy.