Page 17 of Tempest

Kill him. Let them kill him.

Then a pirate grabbed for Sara, taking the servant roughly by the arm, and her prayers fell away.

“She is a maid. She carries nothing,” Cat said, firmly planting herself between them without a second thought.

Only to find the burly pirate from her cabin leering back at her with angry eyes and a bruising nose. Whatever burst of bravery she felt sputtered, a candle in rain.

“And what do you carry, Tiger?” he hissed, a sweaty hand reaching for her neck.

Cat shuddered, bracing herself for a blow.

“Easy, Horace. You only have one nose,” said a low voice, a tall figure stepping between pirate and lady. It was enough to make the former recoil instantly, hands raised as he stepped away.

Navy or not, the pirates obeyed orders as well as any man of the fleet. Cat could not help but be impressed, if not utterly shocked.

“Aye, Kane,” Horace replied, returning to the material spoils without so much as a backwards glance.

Kane.

Cat glanced up to study the pirate standing over her, an amused look on his face, the storm still in his gaze. In the sunlight, his eyes looked lighter, closer to the color of the waves around the ship. And just as unfathomable, hiding untold depths.

“Your father seems to have wet himself,” he said, angling his chin at Lord Rose now drawn up in ball. Indeed, there was a telltale dark stain at the front of his breeches.

Cat frowned, her voice dull.

“He is not my father.”

At that, Kane’s face darkened, and he shook his head. A ring of gold flashed in one ear, matching the chain around his wrist.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “My apologies indeed.”

Cat blushed as she eyed her husband, his shirt now hanging open to show a pale, soft belly. His was the only male body she had ever known. It cut a sickly contrast against the hardened pirates, especially Kane, who was still standing too close for comfort. Cat could not help but drift between the two, her eyes tracing the white swell of her husband’s gut just to dart back to the tanned and muscled forearms of the pirate. And the swath of bare chest on full display between the folds of his half-buttoned shirt.

Her jaw tightened and she looked back at Ryman, forcing herself to watch his misery.

He still groveled, silver pocket watch dangled from another pirate’s hand, the gleaming face cracked in the scuffle. It swung like a pendulum, in time with the gentle waves buffeting the ship.

She could feel Kane’s eyes as she stared, the storm of him trained on her face. It was not hard to guess what he thought. She assumed the rest of the deck felt similarly, sympathetic to the useless wife of an even more useless man.

Her teeth clenched.

“I do not want the pity of a pirate,” she bit out.

Her boldness seemed to both shock and delight him. He blinked once, the corner of his mouth rising.

“The only one I pity is Horace, who now has to explain how a fine Meridian lady battered his face,” he shot back, eyeing her sidelong. Before Cat could feel some sort of pride, his gaze turned harsh. “I don’t pity the likes of you.”

Heat flooded down her face and neck, until even the tops of her breasts felt warm. Cat fought the urge to scream, or worse, cry. Even so, hot tears of frustration pricked at her eyes. She glared across the deck of the ship, towards the islands in the distance. A long stretch of sea separated the Credence from Goldcoast, the waves whitecapping in the rising wind.

It did not look so far.

“I would not recommend that course of action.”

Kane’s voice ground out, so close to her ear Cat felt the vibrations of it. She flinched away as if burned, squaring to face him.

“What course of action?”

“Jumping overboard. Swimming to shore.” He matched her stance, forearms crossing over his broad chest and open shirt. “You’re still miles from Goldcoast, and you don’t look like you have much practice. Not to mention the sharks.”