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

her veins. Her
belly, which had been in the process of melting down to her knees,
required a concentrated effort to retrieve and she had almost
succeeded when she turned to glare after him… and saw his
back.
    It was a mass
of lines and welts and crisscrossing scars. They were not fresh,
for most of the lines had been incorporated back into the muscle
and were as tanned and weathered as the rest of him. But some had
been severe enough, deep enough, to cut through to the bone and no
amount of time would ever smooth them or render them less
visible.
    Beau had
witnessed floggings before. It was the accepted means of keeping
discipline on a ship. Five strokes with the cat-o’-nine was her
father’s usual limit, but rarely delivered with enough heart to
split the skin.
    Simon Dante,
Comte de Tourville, had been subjected to ten, twenty times that
many strokes, laid on by a vicious hand that had known no mercy
whatsoever.
    What in God’s
name did a man do to earn a hundred lashes of the cat?
    While she
pondered the question, Dante opened the second chest and pushed a
few garments impatiently from side to side until he found the ones
he sought. The shirt he drew over his shoulders was white as snow,
cut full with long, loose sleeves gathered at the wrists and edged
in open cutwork. The collar was more of a ruffle, made to extend
over the edge of a doublet, but he ignored the lacing in front and
let it hang open over the vast darkness of his chest while he
rummaged for other articles.
    When his hands
went to his waist and began peeling his hose down over his lean
hips, Beau instinctively averted her eyes. She heard the dull thud
of his boots striking the floor and a sharp, half-formed curse when
he disturbed the bandages on his calf. The briefest, smallest peep
sidelong gave her a glimpse of naked, muscular legs and taut
buttocks. A longer, more contemplative look was directed toward the
scrolled wheel-lock pistol he had left lying on top of the
desk.
    Dante was bent
over, unwinding the layers of filthy bandages. His back was to the
desk and although he was a pace or two closer to it than she was,
he would be hobbled by his leg and hampered by the unraveling
strips of linen.
    Beau sent her
tongue slicking across her lips to moisten them.
    With her lower
lip clamped securely between her teeth, she made a dash for the
desk, snatching the pistol off the piles of documents and aiming it
at Dante de Tourville before he had fully spun around.
    The gun was
heavier than she had expected, the stock inlaid with ivory and
mother-of-pearl. The lock and escutcheon plate were brass overlaid
with gold filigree, the pyrite holder was shaped like a dragon’s
head with the body curling down in an S to form the trigger. The
spanner key was in the cocked position, meaning the spring was
fully wound and the slightest pressure on the serpentine trigger
would release the wheel, showering sparks into the firing pan, thus
igniting the powder and charge.
    Dante’s initial
surprise over her quickness mellowed into cool curiosity as he
straightened and stared into the long, gleaming barrel.
    “Well,” he said
quietly. “You do have a knack for creating impasses, don’t
you?”
    “I see no
impasse here, Captain. I have the gun. You have about two seconds
to pull on a pair of breeches and walk ahead of me to the
door.”
    Dante folded
his arms across his chest. “And if I don’t?”
    “You can die as
you are. It matters not to me.”
    The silver eyes
looked bemused. “And once we are through the door—what then?”
    “ Then … you call
your dogs off my father’s ship, and if you are extremely lucky,
depending on Captain Spence’s mood, we may leave you another barrel
or two of water before we sail away.”
    “You would
leave us here to sink?”
    “Gladly.”
    His gaze
smoldered thoughtfully for much longer than the ordained two
seconds before the fine creases at the corners deepened and the
wide, sensuous mouth flattened into a wolfish