He was intent on fornication, and the future had no bearing on what he was about to do.
“I swear that I will never hurt you,” he vowed.
She was very still, pondering, then she nodded. “I want it to be you.”
“So do I.”
“Show me how it can be, but be gentle.”
“Always, Harriet. Always.”
He bent to her nipple again, and he sucked on it more forcefully as he slid a questing hand up her leg. Shortly, she was at the sharp edge of desire, and with a few flicks of his thumb, he tossed her into an orgasm.
She went easily, soaring to the heavens as he held her tight. As she floated down, she was practically purring.
“You are so naughty,” she said.
“I can’t deny it.”
“Let’s do that again.”
Her voice was sultry and sexy, luring him to his doom like a siren on the rocks.
He widened her thighs, settling himself between them, and he’d just started to unbutton his trousers when several loud thuds echoed on deck. Shouting followed, then gunshots.
“What the hell...?” he muttered, glaring at Harriet as if she would know what was occurring.
“What was that?” she inquired.
More gunshots rang out, then tromping of boots. A canon blast shattered the air.
“Holy Mother of God!” he cursed, and he leapt from the bed, flew to his trunk, and pulled out some weapons. There was no time to don a shirt or shoes, no time to think about anything but his ship and his men.
He raced to the door and was about to exit when Harriet called, “Tristan!”
He whipped around, having forgotten she was present, and he was disgusted with himself. He’d been so besotted that he’d put his entire crew at risk.
“What?”
“What’s happening!”
“We’re under attack. We may already have been boarded.”
She jerked at her chemise, covering her bosom.
“Tell me what to do.”
Alarm over her fate swamped him. If she was captured, she would be repeatedly raped, then she’d either be murdered or taken to Algiers and sold to a harem.
The horrid prospect imbued him with the fury necessary to keep her safe.
“First of all, get dressed as fast as you can.”
“All right.”
She clambered to her feet as he shoved a pistol at her.
“Do you know how to fire this?”
“No.”
“It’s loaded. You cock it like this, aim, and squeeze the trigger.”
She didn’t reach for it, so he wrapped her fingers around the butt.
“Convince me that you can use it if you need to.”
“I...I...”
“You’re not afraid of anything, remember, Harriet? Can you fire it?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl. Now swear to me that you won’t leave this cabin. No matter what you hear or how bad it sounds up on the deck. You can’t leave!”
She was mulishly silent.
“Swear it to me!” he bellowed.
“I won’t leave,” she pledged. “I swear.”
“I’m going up to join the battle. Bar the door, and if anyone comes through it but me, shoot him dead.”
He swept out without a backward glance.
Harriet stuck to her vow for all of two minutes.
Another cannon blast roared, and it rocked the ship so she was thrown to the floor. What if a hole had been blown in the wood? They would sink, and the idea of drowning in Harcourt’s cabin was terrifying.
After yanking on her clothes, she hurried to his trunk that he—for once—hadn’t bothered to lock. The pistol he’d given her would fire precisely one time, and then what?
She grabbed a knife, then tiptoed into the hall and up to the deck where she climbed out to chaos.
Two of the masts had been toppled, so the ship was disabled. Men were running and screaming, the scene so bizarre that it didn’t seem real. As she watched, it swiftly became apparent that whoever had attacked them was winning.
There was a ship right next to them, sporting a skull and crossbones as its flag. Sailors were jumping between the two vessels as if it was a game, and Harcourt’s crew was being overwhelmed. Many were dead, others bleeding, their limbs hacked off. Those who were still alive were being huddled into groups, with pirates holding them at gunpoint.
Frantically, she peered about, searching for Harcourt, and finally, she saw him toward the stern, engaged in a sword fight. He was surrounded by six of the bandits, with none of his own crew nearby to assist. Like a madman, he twirled and parried, his sword slashing viciously, providing stark evidence that he hadn’t been bragging about his skill, but there were too many opponents. Harriet gaped at the mêlée, heartsick as the hopeless spectacle played out.
One pirate in particular seemed to be leading the assault. There was a commanding confidence about him that set him apart, and Harriet decided he must be the captain of the other vessel.
As the skirmish progressed, the others shifted away until Harcourt and the other captain were the only two still fighting. They were the same height, close in age, weight, and size, so it should have been a fair contest, but Harcourt had been bloodied, his fatigue showing, while the pirate appeared fresh and eager to continue.
Harcourt met a strong parry, and as he spun away, a bystander tripped him. The evil crowd laughed as the other combatant’s blade caught Harcourt in the back, thrusting so deep that she could see the tip exit out the front of his chest.
His limbs went slack, his sword clattering away as he collapsed.
Harriet gasped, and without meaning to, she cried, “Tristan, no! Oh, no!”
Her voice—overly loud and definitely female—wafted out, and the pirate who’d stabbed Tristan turned to her and grinned.
“Mon Dieu, what have we here?”
All motion ceased as everyone gawked at her. Though she had nowhere to go, she tried to run, but two blackguards seized her. Quickly, they stripped her of her paltry weapons, then they dragged her over to where Tristan lay on his side, not moving.
She kicked and wrestled, but they simply tied her wrists and ankles so she was trussed and unable to do anything but glare with hatred.
“You killed him, you bastard,” she seethed at the pirate captain. “You killed him.”
“I can’t abide insolent women,” he retorted, “so be silent, or I’ll gag you, too.”
“You only bested him by cheating. You had to have someone trip him before you could—”
He lunged forward and clamped a palm over her mouth and nose, cutting off her air.
“Didn’t you hear me, cherie? Be silent!”
He assessed her, permitting her to get a good look at him, and to her surprise, his eyes were emerald green, his hair blond, like her own. In different, more normal circumstances, people might have mistaken them for brother and sister.
“Now then,” he cautioned, “I’m going to take my hand away. If you so much as peep, I will give you to my men and let them do whatever they like to you—which I doubt you’d appreciate. Nod if you understand me.”
There was a subtle tensing in those sailors nearest her, as if they were anxious for her ravishment to commence, and she nodded. The pirate backed away.
“I have a few questions for you,” he said. “I expect your answers to be brief. Nod again if you think you can comply without annoying me.”
Harriet nodded.
“I am Jean Pierre, Le Terreur Franҫais.”
The French Terror! The dastardly swashbuckler was notorious, and on learning his identity, Harriet blanched.
At being recognized, he beamed with pride. “I see my reputation precedes me. What is your name?”
“Harriet.”
“Are you the captain’s wife?”
“No.”
“His whore?”
She bristled. “Absolutely not.”
“His passenger? A relative? What?”
“I was a stowaway.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Jean Pierre considered her reply. “I suppose it’s possible. After all, I’ve proven this vessel is quite easy to board without invitation.”
His crew whooped with merriment.
Harriet scrutinized him, committing his features to memory so she would never forget his face, and while his hair and eyes matched hers, he also bore an uncanny resemblance to Tristan.
Who was he beyond the façade of Jean Pierre? He talked with an accent that was part-French and part-English, as if he’d been raised in both countries, and though he was obviously a criminal, his speech and manners branded him a man of education and breeding.
“You claim to be a stowaway, cherie,” he said, “yet you call your captain by his Christian name. This indicates that you have a connection that’s more involved than you have admitted to me.”
“I hardly know him.”
“Such a pretty, pretty liar.”
“It’s true! I swear. He was—”
He held up a hand in warning. “Don’t make me be cruel to you, cherie. Don’t speak unless spoken to.” He turned to the sailor who had a sword pressed to Tristan’s throat. “Is he still breathing?”
“Oui.”
Harriet’s knees almost gave out. “Thank God.”
“Don’t thank your precious God,” Jean Pierre said. “Thank me for not murdering him when I had the chance.” Without pulling his gaze from hers, he ordered, “Lower the longboat.”
Several men jumped to do his bidding. The small boat was maneuvered down to the water while Tristan’s crew watched and waited to learn what would happen next.