Read Online Pirate Wolf Trilogy by Marsha Canham - Free Book Online

“Perhaps
if one survives, the other will not be forgotten too
soon.”
    “ It is
a … beautiful ship,” she
was compelled to admit.
    “ The Virago was a
beautiful ship,” he said, all but to himself. “Quick and keen,
sleek as a nymph. She was the ideal companion—loyal, trustworthy,
brave beyond measure in heart and soul, with a fiery temper that
could set any foe running before the wind. She did not deserve—” he
glanced around the wreckage in the cabin and sighed—
“this.”
    “You said you
were set upon by six Spaniards and sank them all. I could not think
of a more fitting end, if it were my ship.”
    “She did us
proud against the Spanish, aye. But it was an Englishman who
betrayed her.”
    “ You were
betrayed? An Englishman told
the Spanish where to find you?”
    His eyes
narrowed against the memory and for a moment, the rage and fury
that darkened his face was potent enough for Beau, standing half a
dozen paces away, to feel its heat. She saw the subtle shifting in
the color of his eyes as they went from being a pale, smoldering
gray to searing blue and she remembered seeing the same
extraordinary change a split second before he had grabbed at her
throat. With an effort Beau forced herself to breathe, aware she
had filled her lungs, so as to pre-empt another strike.
    “Captain—?”
    “Behind you,”
he said, cracking his words like kindling. “The big chest. Quicker
done, quicker away. That is what you want, is it not?”
    Beau felt
a measure of her own anger leak back into her cheeks, dusting them
a soft pink. He had been betrayed. Fine. It perhaps explained his
lack of willingness to place his trust in strangers. But it did not
excuse his behavior in turning around and betraying Jonas Spence,
who had done nothing more malicious to the crew of the Virago than offer them fresh water and
rescue.
    She turned on
her heel and strode across the cabin, kicking bits of debris out of
the way as she went. She muttered one of her father’s favorite
blasphemies under her breath, then repeated it with more substance
when she knelt beside the leather chest and flung open the strapped
lid.
    For
almost a full minute she stared, her anger gradually receding and
giving way to surprise. The sea chest was brimming with women’s
clothes. Skirts, bodices, petticoats… even delicate chemises made
of cloth so sheer, it was almost transparent. She plucked one,
embroidered with silk floss and threads of pure gold, off the
shimmering pile and let the fabric slide through her hand, noting
it was like letting water glide over her skin and puddle in her
lap. She could hardly imagine wearing anything half so fine and
fragile, and wondered at the kind of woman who would. Surely the
smallest flaw, the tiniest freckle, would shine through. A question
more pertinent to character would be to wonder what kind of man
sought out such things, much less carried them halfway across the
world to present to whom? A wife? A mistress?
    Conscious of
that very man seated across the room from her, Beau started
removing bundles of garments and setting them on the floor beside
her. When the chest was almost emptied, she saw something else that
made her movements slow, then come to a complete halt. Tucked into
one corner, nestled in a bed of silk stockings, was a silver jewel
casket. The top was rounded, the base was supported on four small
clawed feet; the style and filigree work was French in design, a
fact not entirely betrayed by the De Tourville wolfhound and
fleur-de-lis engraved on the lid.
    Beau stole a
glance over her shoulder, but Dante had seemingly forgotten her. He
was staring out the broken gallery windows, motionless and
expressionless, his raven hair tinted blue by the hazy light.
    Beau lifted the
casket out of the chest and rested it on her bent knees. She
flicked the tiny hasp with the edge of her thumbnail and raised the
lid slowly, half expecting serpents to spill out onto her lap.
There were no serpents, but there was a