Read Online Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress by Judith E. French - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judith E. French
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he’d hear it.
“Lacy.”
Something indescribable passed between them as he said her name. She’d felt that pent-up energy in the air just before a thunderstorm. “This ... this will hurt,” she warned. To her surprise, his pitch-black beard wasn’t coarse as she had supposed it would be, but soft ... almost silky.
“Careful,” he said brusquely. “If you draw blood, puss, you’ll regret it.”
She lowered the knife, let go of him, and backed away. “To the devil with ye, then. Shave your own face.”
He shook his head. “You told me you could be of use if I didn’t throw you over the side. Now’s your chance to prove it.”
“No. I won’t.”
“Scared?”
“Of you? Not likely.”
“It’s me who should be shaking in my boots.”
Setting her mouth in a tight line, she took hold of his beard again and began to saw it away close to the skin. To her surprise, as the concealing bush fell away, a much younger man appeared, a man with a firm jaw and a shapely, sensual mouth.
Touching him so intimately was an unnerving experience. She’d shaved her father, Red Tom, many times before, but she’d never felt such giddy sensations racing through her body when she’d done it.
“You’re not half bad to look at, under this,” she declared softly, “even if they did try to make sawdust of your face.”
“So my mother always said.”
Aye, the women would follow this one like flies to a pudding, Lacy thought as she concentrated on scraping his square chin clean of whiskers. His skin had a natural olive complexion which hadn’t taken on the pasty hue of so many prisoners. Instead, he had the look of a man who’d spent many years on the sea. There were squint lines at the corners of his large, expressive dark eyes; a small bump on the bridge of his nose that told her it had been broken at least once; and a thin scar that ran from an inch below his right earlobe to halfway down his chin.
“I’m not the first to wish to cut your throat,” she murmured. She ran an exploring finger down the length of the old injury. “Too bad for Ben and Alfred that he wasn’t successful.”
James laughed indulgently and pushed aside his shirt. Three inches lower, a wider scar slashed across his throat. “Crocodile,” he said, then, pulling the shirt up from the bottom, he displayed a huge claw mark that ran from his navel through the dark hairs on his belly to the indentation of his left hip. “Panther.” He grinned, and once more reached for the ties on his breeches. “And lower down, I—”
“Enough o’ that,” Lacy said sharply, giving him a shove. “Mind your manners, sailor, or I’ll cut more than chin whiskers.” She rested her hands on her hips and backed away from him. It was easier to keep her head about her when she wasn’t touching him. “Ye must think I was raised in a barrel,” she declared, “to fall for such claptrap.” She shook her head. “Next you’ll be showing me your sea serpent.”
He shrugged and grinned again, and she noticed how white and even his teeth were. S’blood, but this gentleman jack-tar had a smile to tug at a girl’s heart. She made a moue and surveyed her work.
The shaving was nothing to boast of; she’d left patches of whiskers on the underside of his chin and around his lips. Twice she’d nicked him, and there was a trickle of blood running down one cheek. Still, he was a lot prettier than when she’d started, and without soap, she was reluctant to try any correction. “That’s the best I can do with salt water and a dull knife,” she said. “I can trim your hair if ye like.”
He held out his hand for the weapon, and she gave it to him, blade first. For an answer, he grabbed handfuls of his hair and sawed it off at shoulder length.
“Ragged as if a goat chewed it,” she said.
He stuck the knife back into his waistband and tied his hair with a leather thong. “It’ll do for where I’m heading.”
“And where might that be?”
“I’ve
“Lacy.”
Something indescribable passed between them as he said her name. She’d felt that pent-up energy in the air just before a thunderstorm. “This ... this will hurt,” she warned. To her surprise, his pitch-black beard wasn’t coarse as she had supposed it would be, but soft ... almost silky.
“Careful,” he said brusquely. “If you draw blood, puss, you’ll regret it.”
She lowered the knife, let go of him, and backed away. “To the devil with ye, then. Shave your own face.”
He shook his head. “You told me you could be of use if I didn’t throw you over the side. Now’s your chance to prove it.”
“No. I won’t.”
“Scared?”
“Of you? Not likely.”
“It’s me who should be shaking in my boots.”
Setting her mouth in a tight line, she took hold of his beard again and began to saw it away close to the skin. To her surprise, as the concealing bush fell away, a much younger man appeared, a man with a firm jaw and a shapely, sensual mouth.
Touching him so intimately was an unnerving experience. She’d shaved her father, Red Tom, many times before, but she’d never felt such giddy sensations racing through her body when she’d done it.
“You’re not half bad to look at, under this,” she declared softly, “even if they did try to make sawdust of your face.”
“So my mother always said.”
Aye, the women would follow this one like flies to a pudding, Lacy thought as she concentrated on scraping his square chin clean of whiskers. His skin had a natural olive complexion which hadn’t taken on the pasty hue of so many prisoners. Instead, he had the look of a man who’d spent many years on the sea. There were squint lines at the corners of his large, expressive dark eyes; a small bump on the bridge of his nose that told her it had been broken at least once; and a thin scar that ran from an inch below his right earlobe to halfway down his chin.
“I’m not the first to wish to cut your throat,” she murmured. She ran an exploring finger down the length of the old injury. “Too bad for Ben and Alfred that he wasn’t successful.”
James laughed indulgently and pushed aside his shirt. Three inches lower, a wider scar slashed across his throat. “Crocodile,” he said, then, pulling the shirt up from the bottom, he displayed a huge claw mark that ran from his navel through the dark hairs on his belly to the indentation of his left hip. “Panther.” He grinned, and once more reached for the ties on his breeches. “And lower down, I—”
“Enough o’ that,” Lacy said sharply, giving him a shove. “Mind your manners, sailor, or I’ll cut more than chin whiskers.” She rested her hands on her hips and backed away from him. It was easier to keep her head about her when she wasn’t touching him. “Ye must think I was raised in a barrel,” she declared, “to fall for such claptrap.” She shook her head. “Next you’ll be showing me your sea serpent.”
He shrugged and grinned again, and she noticed how white and even his teeth were. S’blood, but this gentleman jack-tar had a smile to tug at a girl’s heart. She made a moue and surveyed her work.
The shaving was nothing to boast of; she’d left patches of whiskers on the underside of his chin and around his lips. Twice she’d nicked him, and there was a trickle of blood running down one cheek. Still, he was a lot prettier than when she’d started, and without soap, she was reluctant to try any correction. “That’s the best I can do with salt water and a dull knife,” she said. “I can trim your hair if ye like.”
He held out his hand for the weapon, and she gave it to him, blade first. For an answer, he grabbed handfuls of his hair and sawed it off at shoulder length.
“Ragged as if a goat chewed it,” she said.
He stuck the knife back into his waistband and tied his hair with a leather thong. “It’ll do for where I’m heading.”
“And where might that be?”
“I’ve
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