Page 12 of The Rogue

He watched as Mousy took a deep drink and shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his face. “Don’t change nuthin’, this weren’t the life ye should ‘ave led an’ ye know it, well as I do.”

“Did the Doc give you Laudanum?” he demanded, and groaned as Mousy nodded, no wonder the stupid bastard was growing maudlin.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asked, steering the conversation away from the past and onto safer ground.

Mousy rolled the offending limb experimentally and grimaced. “I’ll live,” he said with a crooked smile.

Lars nodded. “Be sure that you do. I’ve got enough trouble without you dying on me.” He got to his feet and clapped Mousy heartily on the arm.

The enormous man groaned. “Ah, you black-hearted varlet,” he muttered. “I’ll get you for that.”

“I know,” Lars replied with a cheerful grin, before heading back up on deck.

The bitter cold of the November night cut at him as he walked to the rail. After so many years in warmer climes, the ferocity of an English winter came as a shock and brought back memories.

Log fires and crumpets, the tangy salt smell of a seaweed-strewn beach after a gale, of riding out on frosty mornings and returning to a warm, welcoming house, full of love and laughter. Thoughts of a place that had once been his home returned to haunt him. He hadn’t thought of that life for a long time, hadn’t allowed himself to. What was the point of dwelling on the past? Particularly when he’d done so much harm to those he’d loved. But now he remembered a place where he’d been happy, happier than he’d realised at the time.

Even in the bright moonlight the jagged edge of the coastline that had once been so familiar to him was hard to make out. He’d been a fool to come back here. There was nothing here for him but ghosts.

Though it seemed at least there was one less than he had believed. For that he was desperately relieved and grateful, and he smiled at the truth of it. The burden of that knowledge had been a weight around his neck and his heart for his whole life. Now it was gone. And yet everything he’d done, everything he’d become, had been because of that knowledge. To know he’d been wrong all this time, that he hadn’t been damned after all made it a bitter-sweet feeling that enveloped him. Only his actions since that fateful night had put the noose about his own neck.

He shook his head, raising his face and relishing the cold sting of sea spray against his skin. He’d made his own bed, and there was no one else to blame no matter what Mousy thought. Whatever had befallen him, he alone was responsible, and he would spend the rest of his days as an exile.

It wasn’t like there was anything to return to now. He had long since burnt those bridges and besides, he’d had many years to become accustomed to the idea. What was harder was the idea that the life he had made for himself was also over.

Wellington had defeated Napoleon and the war was over. Europe had once more turned its attention to the Barbary corsairs and any fool could see that the pirates were a dying breed.

Ironically, he found he couldn’t mourn for many of the men that would suffer. Most had made their fortune in the slave trade, which he had always found abhorrent. But it would no longer be possible to pick off fat American merchant ships, take their cargoes and ransom their more illustrious passengers as had been his own way of working the Mediterranean.

Tripoli, Tunis, Algiers, all were lost to him. Out of bounds unless he wished to find his ship blown from the water and a brief dance with Jack Ketch until his neck was stretched,

Which begged the question. What now?

He had no answer to give. No safe destination, for there was none. It galled him that he had made his reputation on his quick thinking and decisiveness. Now he felt, almost literally, lost at sea.

Mousy was right about one thing, he hadn’t been born to this life. He’d been a mutton-headed sap skull, as green as they came and far too soft to survive for long. Those early days had been both the most miserable and the most enlightening of his existence. But in the end, it had been quite literally sink or swim and swim he had.

He’d learned to fight and to curse like the most hardened mariner, and to step up and take a beating, even if he was scared to death. But he’d also learned that his quick tongue and lively sense of humour could diffuse the most difficult situations, and somehow as the years wore on, charm, a shrewd intelligence and plain devilment had got him where he was; The Rogue, captain of a pirate ship and with a price on his head that quite stole his breath.

It was laughable.

Sleep, he decided. He needed to sleep. He’d barely had a moment’s rest since land had been sighted on their ill-fated journey here. Now, with the adrenaline of his flight from the militia long since dispersed, he felt weary to his bones. He made his way back to his cabin and was momentarily perplexed as to why his cabin door was locked. And then he remembered the blasted girl. He turned the key in the door with care, trying to make as little noise as possible and entered the cabin.

The lamp was still burning low, and the room was still. He waited, expecting any moment to be attacked with some heavy item or at the very least to find himself at the end of Miss Morton’s sharp tongue.

With care he touched his fingertips to the deep scratches down his neck and sucked in a breath. But all was quiet. Well she might look as sweet and innocent as a kitten, but the little bitch had claws as Mousy had observed, and he’d do well to remember it too. A sentiment he tried very hard to remind himself of when he crossed the room to find the little minx curled up, asleep on his bed.

He reached for the lamp and held it up, so that the soft, golden light fell across her face. Claws or no claws, she certainly looked like an angel when she slept. Long, thick, dark lashes swept the curve of her cheek, her face surrounded by equally thick, mahogany curls, and her soft, full lips were slightly parted.

For a moment, he allowed himself to remember exactly how soft and yielding her mouth had been the first time they’d met. He remembered the taste of her, the shock in her tawny eyes as she’d given in to him, to her own desire. Need and lust burned in his blood, and he was forcefully reminded of just how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman.

Dammit, but he wanted her.

As if things weren’t complicated enough. Still, at least seducing the infuriating Henrietta Morton should allow him some light entertainment during the voyage, even if he currently had no idea what the destination might be.

With a roguish smile he knew suited his reputation to perfection, he eased his way onto the bed. With care not to disturb his sleeping companion, he tucked himself in close behind her. At least she would be warm when she awoke. He chuckled inwardly as he imagined her indignation when she discovered him, and just how furious her expression would be when she greeted him in the morning.

Chapter 7