Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
I lit the lantern on the wall, squared my shoulders, and turned to face him. “Tell me about the scars.”
His head tilted, his expression momentarily unguarded and decisively mean. Just as quickly, his features blanked. A blatant refusal to talk.
The iron shackle at his ankle connected to the wall by a heavy chain. He didn’t bother rising from his sprawl in the corner, knowing I wouldn’t step within his reach.
“Were you tortured by someone?” I pulled an empty cask from the stores of water and used it as a stool to sit. “Or were you caught in a battle? A fire at sea?”
His jaw flexed, and he looked away, presenting a distinguished, angular profile the likes of a man born to the upper class. But an aristocrat he was not.
He ate with the same knife he killed with. Kissed noble ladies with the same mouth that spat on their respectability. And conquered his enemies with a brutality that would never be found among echelons of the British government. He was proud to be a commoner and wielded it well, like my father.
Except my father hadn’t been a lying, cheating husband.
The wound on Priest’s head looked clean. No bandages or stitches needed. Perhaps I should have hit him harder.
His eyes shifted back to mine, and his mouth twisted, sensually, cruelly, provoking memories of its ruthlessness. I had an unnerving suspicion he was aware of the barest lift of my breasts, the slightest shift in my shoulders, every minuscule twitch I made to compensate muscle fatigue and discomfort.
Yet he spoke with cold, unflappable indifference. “You’re still angry.”
“You’re still an arsehole.”
“You didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“I certainly—”
“We both know my proximity prevented a moment of rest. But you’ve always had trouble sleeping. It’s the nightmares. Do you still cry out for your mother?” He gentled his voice. “Beg her not to jump?”
Yes.
My throat constricted. “You haven’t seen me in two years. You don’t know me.”
“I know you better than anyone.”
I laughed, a forced sound of disbelief.
“I know you loathe dresses and frivolous accoutrement. You wear a boy’s shirt and trousers because it’s practical. But it also satisfies an innate need to resist your noble blood.” He inspected my clothing with a smirk. “You always wear a hat when the sun’s at its highest, claiming it’s to shade your eyes. But really, it’s to protect your skin. Because you were bred to favor a fair complexion.”
“Lucky guess,” I grumbled. “All based on information I should have never given you.”
“I know that pirating inspires a thrill in you like naught else. When too much time passes between raids, you chew your nails down to the quicks.” He glanced at the grown-out tips on my fingers. “You’ve been busy. Coming off a long successful stretch at sea, I wager.”
Damn his perceptiveness. I balled my hands, hiding the evidence.
“When silent and at ease, you’re the picture of a demure patrician beauty, and those eyes… Christ, they’re so blue and huge, like an innocent, wide-eyed child. They’re beguiling. Misleading.” He fingered the cut on his head and frowned. “The moment someone challenges you, the world is reminded that Edric Sharp sired a vicious force to be reckoned with.”
I hadn’t thought of myself that way, but the observation pleased me.
He gave me the full attention of his gaze, one that seemed intent on settling the debate of our intimacy. “I’m the only one who knows your upbringing.”
“Charles Vane knew.”
“He died four days ago. On your father’s birthday.”
I choked on an ambivalent mass of emotions, resenting his knowledge yet grateful he remembered. “That’s enough.”
“If you hear the words roll over during the heat of passion, you become violently ill. You don’t just relive the Marquess of Grisdale’s assault—shall he rot in hell for eternity.” He flexed his hands. “You also relive the deaths of your parents.”
“Stop.” My voice broke, trapped against a sob. I tried to push it down, pull myself free, but it was like trying to outrun a tidal wave.
Tears began to leak. Rampant and hot, they coursed down my cheeks and gathered at the hand I held against my mouth.
“I know how badly you need the key to your father’s compass.” He blinked, a slow fall of lashes. “Not for the riches it would bring. You desperately hope it will lead you to a letter, words of love or affirmation, something personal he might have left for you before he died.”
Mercy God, how did he know that? I never told anyone any of this. Yet every word was painfully, brutally accurate.
“Where is it?” I slammed a fist against the barrel beneath me.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t give me the satisfaction of wavering in the least.
What did I expect? That he would cough up the compass? Agree to a divorce? Promise to leave me in peace?
I met his stare. “How were you burned?”