Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Footsteps advanced, and Reynolds appeared at my side, ducking his tall frame behind the wagon.
“Your crewmates are enjoying themselves.” I kept my gaze on the blond man, imagining the feel of his lean body moving against mine. “We should stay a few more hours. I could use a drink.” And a dark corner with an attractive sailor.
“There’s a flush upon your neck, Captain.”
I cupped my hand there and ground my teeth.
“I know what beckons you, and it isn’t ale.” His voice lowered, hesitant yet assertive. “I would help you with that. We could return to the ship, set her a-sail, and I would come to your cabin and provide what you need. It’s safer than what you’re considering here, with a stranger.”
“I appreciate your concern—”
“You’re not the only one who goes without. It’s been too long since I indulged in a woman’s favors.”
Because he never left my side.
Overprotective idiot.
Exceptional quartermaster.
“Go indulge, then.” I gestured toward the tavern. “I’m not stopping you.”
“I won’t leave you out here unguarded.”
I expelled a sigh. “What do you need? Five minutes? Ten? If it’s been as long as you say—”
“With you, I would take my time and tease it out. Every lick.” His eyes remained fixed on the perimeter, even as his voice turned to gravel. “Every bite. Every stroke. I would make it last long after eight bells of the mid watch.”
Heat rolled through me, arousing a quiver in my thighs. It was potent enough to silence the objection on my lips, to make me pause and actually consider his offer.
Meddling with a quartermaster wasn’t the worst idea. I was Charles Vane’s first mate when he bedded me. I could give Reynolds the same thing I gave Charles. A few blissful hours. Nothing more.
But my quartermaster wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Charles. Intimacy would make him possessive and even more attached than he already was. I couldn’t abide that, and not just because I was emotionally incapable of reciprocating. Our friendship was complicated for reasons neither of us was willing to discuss.
“The answer is no, and you know why.” I nodded at the tavern. “There are some dashing ladies in there waiting to be corrupted by a seductive blackguard. While you’re doing that, I’m going to find a quiet place to sit inside. The crew will keep an eye out.”
I didn’t wait for a response as I breezed around the wagon and strode into the tavern.
The aroma of ale and tobacco teased my nose, and the cacophony of drunken voices smothered my thoughts. The crowd packed in around me, shoulder to shoulder, and my shorter-than-average stature made it easy to slip between the bodies unnoticed.
With a peek over my shoulder, I located Reynolds. He stood taller than the tallest man, the unruly stripe of hair on his head identifiable over the masses as he made his way toward the bar.
I moved in the opposite direction, keeping my chin down and senses sharp. Garments were the best indicators of trouble. I avoided clusters of uniforms and gravitated toward gowns similar to mine, blending in with the wives of thirsty gentlemen.
At length, I worked my way through the tavern and felt reasonably confident no one recognized me. Standing amid a herd of well-dressed patrons, I listened to dull conversations about English politics and the woes of sea voyage.
Just as I began to relax, an ominous sensation moved through me. My shoulder blades twitched. A feverish chill bathed my back, and the hairs on my arms stood straight up.
“Found you.” The dark purr rasped against my nape and reached into the blackest part of my soul.
That growly, toe-curling Welsh accent had haunted my dreams for two years.
Ice-cold fear shivered down my spine, and I spun, bumping into the occupied chairs at a nearby table.
“Forgive me,” I muttered and turned away from the glares, searching the throngs for the owner of that voice.
My pulse slammed through my veins as I examined every face, pushing through the crowds, listening for him, and losing my mind.
I must have conjured him out of paranoia. He couldn’t have found me. How would he even know I was in Jamaica?
A gust of realization stole from my lungs.
Every pirate alive would’ve learned about Charles Vane’s capture, and the pirate I hated most knew exactly what Charles meant to me.
Nausea like I’d never felt at sea surged through my body. Urgency moved my legs. I flattened a hand against my stomach and shoved my way toward the exit.
Then I saw him.
In the dark corner of the tavern sprawled the king of libertines. His face angled away, but I knew that forked tongue. It had stroked every inch of my skin under a veil of lies, breathing promises that had coiled around my heart and crushed me bit by broken bit.
Priest Farrell.
Notoriously known as the Feral Priest, his moniker was whispered with more fear and reverence than of those who’d ruled the high seas with my father.